EXPOSITION 
MEMORIES 


UC-NRLF 


17fl 


SAN  DIEGO  1016 


SAN  DIEGO 
WRITERS 


JEWHARTON  JAMES 


GIFT   OF 


EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 


CALIFORNIA  STATE  BUILDING  FROM  THE  NORTHEAST 


EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

PANAMA-CALIFORNIA  EXPOSITION,  SAN  DIEGO,  1916 

BY 
GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES 

INTRODUCTION  BY 

CAROLINE  REMONDINO  FRANKLIN 

A  CHAPTER  BY 

BERTHA  BLISS  TYLER 

AND  THE  PROSE  AND  POETIC  WRITINGS  OF 

SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS 

READ  AT  THE  EXPOSITION 


1917 

THE  RADIANT  LIFE  PRESS 
PASADENA,  CALIFORNIA 


BOOKS  BY  GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES 


QUIT  YOUR  WORRYING 

LIVING  THE  RADIANT 

ARIZONA,  THE  WONDERLAND 

CALIFORNIA,  THE  ROMANTIC  AND  BEAUTIFUL 

PICTURESQUE   PALA 

ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  AND  THE  STORY  OF  "CURFEW  MUST  NOT 

RING  TONIGHT" 

WINTER  SPORTS  IN  THE  HIGH  SIERRAS 
OVER  THE  APACHE  TRAIL  IN  ARIZONA 
IN  AND  AROUND  THE  GRAND  CANYON 
IN  AND  OUT  OF  THE  OLD  MISSIONS 
INDIAN  BASKETRY 
PRACTICAL  BASKET  MAKING 

THE  INDIANS  OF  THE  PAINTED  DESERT  REGION 
THE  STORY  OF  SCRAGGLES 
THROUGH  RAMONA'S  COUNTRY 
THE  WONDERS  OF  THE  COLORADO  DESERT 
THE  INDIANS'  SECRETS  OF  HEALTH 
THE  HEROES  OF  CALIFORNIA 
THE  CALIFORNIA  BIRTHDAY  BOOK 
THE  HOUSE  BLESSING  CEREMONY  AND  GUEST  BOOK 
EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD— AN  APPRECIATION 
THE  LAKE  OF  THE  SKY— LAKE  TAHOE 
OUR  AMERICAN  WONDERLANDS  .     . 

RECLAIMING  THE  AtfCJ  DESERT?  »3>\ 
LITTLE  JOURNEYS  TO'STRANGE  PLACES  AND  PEOPLES 
THE  FRANCISCA^  MJ^EQ^p^GALiFORNIA 
THE  GRAND  CANYON  6$  ARIZONA— HOW  TO  SEE  IT 
INDIAN  BLANKETS  AND  THEIR  MAKERS 

Further  particulars  of  these  books  may  be  had  by  addressing  the  Radiant  Life  Press, 
1098  North  Raymond  Avenue,  Pasadena,  California 


£/ 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Introduction    .       .       .      v      .       .       .  .            vii 

I.     Memories  of  the  San  Diego  Exposition  .  .       11-24 

II.  The  San  Diego  Exposition  "California 

Literature  Class"     .       .       .       .       ,  .       25-58 

III.  The  California  Authors'  Days    .  .       .  .       59-75 

IV.  The  Literature  of  San  Diego    .       .       .  .       76-79 

V.     The  San  Diego  Writers  and  Their  Works  ; 

with  Biographical  Sketches   ..       .  <•     80-194 

VI.     George  Wharton  James  Day     .       .       .  ,  195-207 

VII.     Mr.  Winslow's  Book  on  the  Exposition  .  208-210 


368756 


Copyright,  1917, 

BY 
EDITH  E.  FARNSWORTH 


INTRODUCTORY 

Possibly  never  before  at  any  Exposition  held  in 
the  history  of  the  world  was  there  so  unique,  peculiar 
and  interesting  a  development  as  Dr.  George  Whar- 
ton  James's  California  Literature  Class  at  the  Pan- 
ama-California International  Exposition  at  San 
Diego.  Started  as  a  distinctively  literary  adjunct  to 
his  illustrated  work  on  California,  it  attracted  large 
and  thoughtful  audiences.  In  spite  of  the  speaker's 
strongly  marked  resentment  of  certain  habits  of  audi- 
ences which  other  lecturers  generally  pass  over  in 
silence,  and  of  idiosyncrasies  of  speech  and  manner 
that  offended  a  certain  type  of  people,  which  con- 
stantly kept  weeding  out  all  but  the  most  interested ; 
in  spite  of  the  inconvenient  hour  at  which  the  lectures 
were  given,  and  the  strongly  expressed  demand  that 
if  those  present  (at  the  opening  hour)  were  not  pre- 
pared to  stay  the  whole  hour  and  a  quarter  that  the 
lecture  would  last,  they  immediately  retire, — I  say 
that,  in  spite  of  all  these  things,  the  audiences  grew 
in  number  and  in  interest,  until  these  lectures  became 
one  of  the  strongly  marked  and  attractive  features 
of  the  Exposition.  A  birthday  dinner  given  by  Dr. 
James  to  over  a  hundred  of  the  Class  and  their 
guests,  which  was  cooked  a  la  camp-fire  by  the  dis- 
tinguished lecturer  himself  and  served  under  his 
direction  in  the  open  air  of  the  Pepper  Tree  Grove, 
but  served  to  cement  the  bonds  of  the  Class  more 
fully. 


As  one  result  of  the  work  done  certain  days  were 
designated  by  the  Exposition  for  the  honoring  of 
sixteen  of  the  well-known  authors  of  California,  and 
the  conducting  of  these  Author's  Days  was  delivered 
over  to  Dr.  James  and  his  Class.  How  well  and  sat- 
isfactorily the  work  was  done  the  thousands  who  at- 
tended the  ceremonies  will  gladly  attest.  As  a  fur- 
ther result  of  these  activities  a  splendid  set  of  auto- 
graphed photographs  of  the  Authors  honored,  to- 
gether with  life-sized  busts  of  Joaquin  Miller  and 
George  Wharton  James  were  placed  in  the  San 
Diego  Public  Library  as  a  memorial  of  the  work  of 
the  Class  throughout  the  Exposition  year  of  1916. 

The  last  of  these  happy  and  instructive  days  was 
devoted  to  the  Writers  of  San  Diego,  and  at  its  close 
there  was  such  a  unanimous  expression  of  desire 
that  Dr.  James  prepare  a  volume,  containing  the 
poems,  stories,  etc.,  read  by  him  on  this  occasion,  and 
also  giving  a  brief  history  of  the  Class,  that  he  con- 
sented to  undertake  its  publication. 

The  accompanying  pages  are  the  outcome  of  his 
endeavors,  written  while  he  was  supposed  to  be  rest- 
ing in  the  country  for  three  or  four  days  after  the 
close  of  the  Exposition. 

As  the  record  of  a  unique  and  fascinating  Class 
association,  and  certainly  of  the  most  altruistic  piece 
of  Exposition  work  performed  during  the  whole  of 
its  existence,  it  must  have  its  value  as  well  as  its  in- 
terest to  those  who  in  any  way  participated  in  it. 

In  addition  to  what  I  have  adduced  for  the  pub- 
lication of  this  book,  another  reason  is  well  stated  as 
follows  by  Dr.  James  himself : 

Expositions  mean  little  unless  their  spirit — the  chief  essence 
of  them — can  be  passed  on.  Their  physical  appearances  pass 


out  of  existence  as  a  whole,  though,  as  in  San  Diego,  some 
of  the  buildings  and  their  exquisite  surroundings  remain. 
Their  visualized  activities  cease,  but  the  heart,  the  spirit  of 
them  remain  enshrined  in  memory,  and  this  book  will  be  a 
helper,  a  continual  refresher  of  the  memory  of  those  who  were 
actual  participants,  and  may  evoke  some  of  the  spirit  in  those 
who  were  unable  to  be  present,  but  who  are  in  a  receptive 
condition  as  to  the  animating  impulse  of  the  activities. 

As  it  is,  the  book  goes  forth  as  a  memorial  of  the 
joy  many  people  had  at  an  Exposition  they  can  never 
forget. 

CAROLINE  REMONDINO  FRANKLIN. 

San  Diego,  Calif. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MEMORIES  OF  THE  SAN  DIEGO 
EXPOSITION 


E  RETAIN  in  mind  as  permanent  posses- 
sions the  memory  of  many  physical  and  ma- 
terial things  that  have  passed  away  from 
sight.  Our  memories  also  are  spiritual  pos- 
sessions to  be  brought  up  at  will  for  our  en- 
joyment, encouragement  and  inspiration. 

Few  sentient  beings  who  saw  the  San  Diego  Expo- 
sition could  ever  forget  the  initial  impression  they  re- 
ceived as  they  first  saw  the  Exposition  and  its  sur- 
roundings from  the  Cabrillo  Bridge.  Immediately 
ahead  the  exquisitely  delicate  and  graceful  tower  of 
the  California  Building,  with  its  tiled  dome  below 
dominated  all  the  surrounding  buildings.  To  the  left 
were  the  strangely  varied  buildings  of  the  Isthmus 
and  the  rugged  and  rough  sandstone  piles  of  the 
Indian  villages  of  the  Painted  Desert.  To  the  right, 
glimpsed  through  trees  of  a  thousand  and  one  va- 
rieties of  foliage,  were  seen  the  Fine  Arts,  Foreign 
Industries,  and  San  Joaquin  Valley  Buildings,  with  a 
portion  of  the  classic  grace  and  elegance  of  the  Or- 
gan Pavilion,  while  across  the  canyons  and  ravines, 
whose  slopes  were  covered  with  shrubs,  flowers, 
plants  and  trees,  were  the  Utah,  Montana,  New 
Mexico  and  other  buildings  of  the  participating 
states.  At  our  very  feet,  as  we  looked  over  the  para- 
pet, were  more  trees  and  shrubs,  leading  the  eye 


12  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

dowu  -;o  die  lily  pond,  where  myriads  of  lilies  of 
gorgeous  colorings  as  well  as  petals  of  purest  white 
spread  their  delicate  beauty  over  the  water  of  what 
otherwise  would  have  been  a  dirty  and  repulsive 
roadside  pond. 

Equally  beautiful  and  impressive  was  the  view 
when  coming  up  on  the  road  to  the  Eastern  entrance, 
whether  by  electric  car  or  automobile.  After  being 
duly  impressed  with  the  majesty  and  solidity  of  the 
High  School,  and  the  vast  proportions  and  capacity 
of  the  Stadium,  where  38,000  people  could  be  seated 
to  watch  a  scene  in  an  arena  where  5,000  to  10,000 
more  of  performers  could  find  place,  one  might  feel 
that  the  exterior  approaches  would  render  insignifi- 
cant or  at  least  belittle  the  Exposition.  Instead  of 
that,  these  buildings  merely  served  to  enhance  the 
glory  and  charm,  the  serene  unconsciousness  with 
which  the  Exposition — a  city  set  upon  a  hill — dom- 
inated in  queenly  regnancy,  everything  by  which  it 
was  surrounded. 

And  then  the  flowers,  shrubbery  and  trees  of  the 
approach !  How  wonderful  they  were.  How  rich 
the  memories  of  their  incomparable  beauty.  They 
were  the  gorgeous  pretaste  of  the  repast  of  floral 
splendors  within  that  made  this  the  greatest  floral 
Exposition  the  world  has  ever  known.  Every  view 
in  every  direction  was  a  joy  and  a  satisfaction  in  this 
particular.  Merely  to  enumerate  the  flowers  and 
flowering  trees  would  require  pages  of  this  volume, 
and  to  describe  their  combinations,  their  artistic  set- 
tings, their  massings,  their  subtle  separations,  their 
profusion,  their  prodigality  of  color,  and  the  wisdom 
with  which  they  were  changed  and  thus  made  to  give 


THE  SAN  DIEGO  EXPOSITION  13 

a  procession  of  varied  splendors,  is  beyond  the  pen 
of  any  man  save  that  of  an  artist  and  a  poet.  As  I 
write  I  have  before  me  a  picture  in  water-color  of 
Henri  Guignon,  the  courteous  director  of  the  rail- 
way bureau  in  the  French  building.  It  shows  the 
dome  of  the  California  building  from  the  rear.  At 
its  base  is  a  flaming  bed  of  cannae,  of  several  varie- 
ties, each  more  gorgeous  and  brilliant  than  the 
others,  the  whole  forming  a  picture  that  would  seem 
exaggerated  except  to  those  who  knew  the  reality. 

I  close  my  eyes.  In  a  moment  a  picture  of  rich 
beds  of  misembryanthemums,  literally  acres  in  ex- 
tent in  the  aggregate,  glowing  color  fairly  dazzling 
one,  comes  up  in  my  memory — beds  lining  the  road- 
sides, beds  covering  bare  patches  of  ravines,  a  bed 
here,  another  yonder,  but  always  harmonizing  with 
the  landscape  of  which  it  formed  a  part. 

Equally  gorgeous  were  the  climbing  masses  of  bou- 
gainvillae.  How  I  used  to  love  to  watch  them  as  I 
went  day  by  day  to  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  building, 
the  purple  leaves  blown  by  the  gentle  morning 
breezes  up  and  down  the  corridors.  How  the  flam- 
ing color  demanded  one's  attention  to  the  charm  of 
the  white  buildings  with  their  individualistic  adorn- 
ments, and  taught  one  how  much  loving  thought  had 
been  put  into  the  apparently  insignificant  details. 

Then  there  was  the  hedge  of  heliotrope  that  sepa- 
rated the  lawn  leading  to  the  organ  from  the  plaza. 
How  dainty  and  sweet  it  was,  and  how  the  humming- 
birds loved  it  and  flitted  to  and  fro,  sipping  its 
honeyed  blossoms,  like  irridescent  jewels  on  wings. 

My  memories  of  the  rose  garden,  and  of  the  flow- 
ers behind  the  Fine  Arts  building  and  the  Foreign 


14  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Industries  building,  and  of  the  garden  in  front  of  the 
Southern  California  building,  are  so  many  and  com- 
plex that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  dissever  them  one 
from  another.  It  is  as  if  one  were  able  to  recall  a 
score,  a  hundred,  concerts  of  the  Boston  Symphony 
orchestra,  all  at  one  time,  without  remembering 
whether  it  was  a  Beethoven  concerto,  a  Mozart  so- 
nata, a  chorus  by  Handel,  a  march  by  Gounod,  an 
overture  by  Wagner,  or  a  fantasia  by  Strauss,  that 
delighted  you  at  any  particular  concert,  but  that 
somehow  the  composite  memory  of  all  the  pieces, 
varied  and  perhaps  conflicting  though  they  were,  de- 
liciously  and  brilliantly  harmonized  to  your  complete 
and  utter  satisfaction. 

Then  in  marked  contrast,  but  oh  how  sweet  the 
memories,  of  those  quiet  shaded  little  walks,  near 
the  edges  of  the  ravines  and  up  and  down  their 
slopes.  Yonder  I  sat  with  a  dear  friend  peering 
through  a  screen  of  delicate  acacia  blooms  and  leaves 
to  the  serene  majesty  of  the  arches  of  the  Cabrillo 
bridge.  Here  I  used  to  come  as  often  as  I  could 
spare  the  time  to  watch  the  curved-billed  threshers 
hunting  for  their  food  in  the  dry  leaves  under  the 
trees;  yonder  it  was  the  view,  gained  across  the  ra- 
vine, of  the  New  Mexico  building  and  its  associates 
that  made  the  great  attraction.  Never  so  long  as  I 
live  shall  I  forget  those  quiet  and  alluring  walks, — 
the  sense  of  restfulness  they  brought,  the  calm  seren- 
ity that  possessed  one,  and  the  gentle  joy  that  flowed 
through  one's  whole  being  in  the  delightful  contem- 
plation of  these  retired  silvan  nooks. 

Then,  too,  the  trees !  Wherever  had  so  wonderful 
a  collection  of  trees,  especially  of  varied  eucalyptus 


FACHADA  OF  THE  CALIFORNIA  STATE  BUILDING 


ENTRANCE  FROM  THE  NORTH  GARDENS  TO 
CALIFORNIA  QUADRANGLE 


THE  SAN  DIEGO  EXPOSITION  15 

and  acacia,  been  made  to  grow  in  so  short  a  time  as 
here  lined  the  lawns,  the  buildings,  and  covered  the 
slopes  of  the  ravines.  When  the  wind  was  blowing — 
not  often  enough  to  suit  me — I  fairly  reveled  in  the 
moving  pictures  formed  by  the  tall  and  stately  euca- 
lyptus against  the  pure  blue  San  Diego  sky,  and  the 
blooming  acacias,  with  their  daintily  colored  and  en- 
chantingly  varied  leaves  were  a  never-ending  source 
of  delight.  One  night  I  sat  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the 
larger  trees,  nearly  through  the  morning  hours,  with 
a  congenial  comrade  who  had  come  to  visit  me, 
and  the  night  song  of  the  tree,  as  the  sea-breezes  blew 
through  its  branches,  made  such  an  impression  that 
its  memory  can  never  fade. 

Of  the  architecture  I  scarcely  dare  speak.  I  was 
ever  planning  to  study  it  more  fully.  There  is  the 
deep  regret  within  me  that  my  time  was  so  occupied 
that  I  could  not  do  so.  Temporary  though  many 
of  the  buildings  were  said  to  be,  their  architecture 
was  so  appealing  and  so  satisfying,  and  their  local 
ornamentation  so  suggestive  of  California  history 
and  heroes  that  I  wished  to  remember,  that  I  shall 
never  cease  to  wish  I  had  been  able,  with  Mr.  Good- 
hue,  the  architect  in  chief,  or  Mr.  Winslow,  his  San 
Diego  collaborateur,  to  describe  everything  to  me, 
to  go  around  and  fully  master  architecture  and  detail, 
both  in  its  history  and  modern  manifestation.  But, 
imperfect  though  my  knowledge  and  detailed  obser- 
vation were,  there  are  none  but  satisfying  and  heart- 
warming memories  of  the  buildings.  I  have  the  same 
feeling  about  the  buildings  of  the  San  Francisco  Ex- 
position, but  produced  by  entirely  different  causes. 
When  I  consider  the  majesty,  the  sublimity,  the  pon- 


16  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

derous  vastness  of  the  buildings,  the  domes,  the 
arches,  the  colonnades,  etc.,  there,  I  feel  as  though  I 
had  been  in  the  presence  of  a  Greek  athlete  but  of 
proportions  as  gigantic  as  those  of  the  sons  of  Anak, 
whose  dignity  and  power  had  been  somewhat  over- 
powering if  not  oppressive,  while  at  San  Diego  I  had 
been  in  friendly  companionship  with  a  young  maiden, 
who  was  as  good  and  characterful  as  she  was  pretty 
and  attractive.  Both  were,  and  are,  satisfying  and 
warming  to  the  heart,  yet  how  different. 

Of  the  Isthmus  some  of  the  memories  are  very 
pleasing  and  worth  while,  and  others  I  would  as  soon 
forget.  My  Indian  friends  at  The  Painted  Desert; 
Captain,  the  horse  with  the  human  brain;  Madame 
Ellis,  the  telepathist;  the  Panama  Canal;  Ernest 
Darling,  the  Nature  man,  and  Tommy  Getz's  Pan- 
orama of  the  Missions  were  always  interesting  to  me. 
Several  times,  to  please  a  young  friend,  I  took  a  ride 
in  the  red  devil  racer,  and  enjoyed  to  the  full  the  ex- 
hilarating ups  and  thrilling  downs  of  that  wildly 
dashing  car.  Many  a  time  I  walked  back  and  forth 
with  the  Nature  man,  enjoying  his  courage  in  daring 
to  dress  in  the  way  he  believed  best,  regardless  of  ad- 
verse public  opinion,  and  ate  with  him  those  simple 
meals  of  uncooked  fruit,  vegetables,  nuts  and  oils 
which  had  brought  him  to  his  present  state  of  healthy 
vigor.  This  was  one  of  many  friendships  the  Ex- 
position gave  to  me,  the  memories  of  which  will  ever 
be  sweet  and  precious.  The  Hindoo,  Deva  Ram 
Sokul,  whom  I  had  met  before  in  friendly  intimacy  in 
San  Francisco;  his  co-worker,  Miss  Gee;  Alexander 
Hume  Ford,  of  the  Hawaiian  building;  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Wilson  of  the  Southern  California  building; 


GEORGE  STERLING 


% 


THE  SAN  DIEGO  EXPOSITION  17 

Henri  Guignon,  of  the  French  exhibit;  the  director 
and  all  the  attendants  of  the  Canadian  buildings; 
Tommasino  and  all  his  bandmen ;  Rossiter  Mikel  of 
the  Administration  building,  with  all  the  officers  and 
their  many  helpers,  not  one  of  whom  was  ever  any- 
thing but  agreeable,  kindly  and  helpful  to  me 
throughout  the  whole  year,  are  some  of  those  of 
whom  I  can  never  think  without  a  warming  sensation 
of  the  cockles  of  my  heart.  And  I  should  be  most 
unmindful  were  I  to  fail  to  mention  the  host  and 
hostess  of  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  building,  with 
whom  I  was  in  daily  association,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John 
G.  Tyler;  and  Dan,  my  lantern  operator;  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Fromm,  who  had  the  luncheon  concession 
there;  the  gracious  lady  of  the  Rose  Garden;  Miss 
Gilbert,  who  directed  the  musical  events ;  H.  J.  Pen- 
fold,  the  genial  secretary,  and  G.  Aubrey  Davidson, 
the  active  and  efficient  president  of  the  Exposition, 
who  had  been  my  good  friend  for  twenty-five 
or  more  years,  and  last,  but  dearest  in  my  regard  for 
the  daily  joy  he  gave  me  in  listening  to  his  exquisite 
music  on  the  great  Spreckels  organ,  as  well  as  the 
many  especial  tokens  of  his  friendliness,  Humphrey 
J.  Stewart,  the  organist  and  composer.  Are  these 
memories  to  be  slighted  or  overlooked?  Each  one 
has  a  definite  and  explicit  connection  with  the  Exposi- 
tion, and  long  will  it  be,  I  hope,  before  any  of  the 
sweetness  of  any  of  them  will  be  dimmed  ^  in  the 
slightest. 

My  memories  of  the  events  at  the  great  Spreckels 
organ  are  so  many  and  so  varied  that  it  is  impossible 
even  to  mention  them  all.  The  joy  of  Dr.  Stewart's 
daily  playing  never  once  flagged.  I  delighted  in  his 


18  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

last  concert  as  much  as,  perhaps  more  than,  his  first. 
Then  Ellen  Beach  Yaw,  Schumann-Heink,  Carrie 
Jacobs  Bond,  Amy  M.  Beach,  and  how  many  others 
it  is  needless  to  say,  come  again  and  again  to  my  mind 
in  pleasantest  remembrance.  And,  of  course,  the 
egotism  of  myself  is  flattered  as  I  recall  the  occasions 
where  I  had  the  pleasure  of  addressing  large  audi- 
ences at  the  organ  pavilion:  Bunker  Hill  Day,  Joa- 
quin  Miller  Day,  Bird-Box  Day,  etc.,  and  especially 
on  the  day  set  apart  by  the  officials  and  my  friends  to 
do  me  honor.  How  ungrateful  I  would  be  if  this  were 
not  deeply  and  securely  enshrined  in  the  most  sacred 
chambers  of  my  memory. 

Then  I  do  not  forget  the  honor  given  me  in  that 
I  was  privileged  to  give  the  addresses  on  Olive  Day, 
Hawaiian  Day,  Peace  Day,  Bird  Day,  and  that 
never-to-be-forgotten  day,  when  Protestants  and 
Catholics,  people  of  all  religions  and  no  religions, 
gathered  to  do  reverent  and  affectionate  homage  to 
Junipero  Serra,  the  founder  of  Christian  civilization 
in  California. 

Here,  too,  at  the  organ,  I  heard  some  fine  chorus 
singing  by  local  choral  bodies  under  excellent  leader- 
ship and  discipline.  What  a  joy  there  is  in  the  light 
and  airy  singing  of  glees  and  songs  of  the  sprightlier 
vein,  and  then  the  massive  crash  and  harmonies  of 
chorals,  oratorios  and  choruses  of  sterner  and  hea- 
vier mood.  Many  of  these  were  heard  to  our  keen 
enjoyment  and  memory  enrichment. 

The  Plaza  de  Panama  has  its  scores  of  memories, 
but  bold  and  strong  amongst  them  are  those  of  the 
drills  of  army  and  navy  boys,  led  by  their  respective 
bands.  How  proud  the  people  were  of  these  well- 


THE  SAN  DIEGO  EXPOSITION  19 

drilled  soldier  and  sailor  boys,  and  how  interested 
they  were  in  the  ready  and  prompt  way  in  which  they 
responded  to  the  commands  of  their  officers  in  per- 
forming the  most  complex  evolutions.  Then  once  in 
a  while  we  were  favored  by  seeing  their  "setting-up" 
exercises.  Like  a  gymnasium  or  physical-culture 
school  exhibition,  the  boys  stood  so  far  apart  and, 
at  the  word  of  command,  made  the  motions  and  per- 
formed the  individual  exercises  which  result  in  their 
muscular  development  and  up-standing  appearance. 
Another  interesting  series  of  memory  and  tone 
pictures  come  to  me,  as  I  sit  and  ruminate  over  my 
enjoyments  of  the  dainty  Exposition.  I  saw  a  cabal- 
lero  in  gorgeous  Spanish  costume,  singing  to  a  beau- 
tifully robed  senorita  on  a  balcony  above — I  looked 
about  for  her  duenna  but  she  was  not  to  be  seen. 
The  song  was  clearly  a  love  song,  of  passionate  in- 
tensity, and  the  lady  evidently  responded.  It  was  all 
so  real,  and  so  naive,  that  I  was  entirely  taken  in  with 
it.  The  balcony  overlooked  a  quiet  little  garden  be- 
hind one  of  the  main  buildings,  and  I  was  sure  I  had 
accidentally  fallen  upon  a  secret  touch  of  romance. 
But  I  soon  learned  that  the  senorita  was  the  wife  of 
the  gallant  singer,  and  his  songs  had  become  an  old 
story  to  her,  and  that  these  two  were  but  part  of  a 
group  of  Spanish  singers,  players  and  dancers  who 
were  engaged  for  the  year  to  sing,  play  or  dance 
wherever  they  could  please  or  interest  the  visitors.  I 
can  see  them  in  the  corridors,  hear  the  jingle  of  the 
tambourines,  and  the  sharp  rattle  of  the  castanets,  the 
ping-pong  of  the  guitar,  and  the  human  note  of  the 
violin,  as  well  as  the  blending  songs  of  men  and 
women,  in  court,  patio,  garden  and  cafe.  They  were 


20  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

ever  ready,  ever  gracious,  ever  pleasing,  and  one's 
memories  of  them  are  always  of  delight  and  joy. 

Connected  with  them  are  the  dinners  and  banquets 
at  the  Cristobal  cafe.  Dinners,  lunches,  where  but 
two  friends  met,  or  a  family  party,  and  then  banquets 
where  some  notable  man  or  woman  was  to  be  hon- 
ored. There  were  the  tasty  dishes,  the  flashes  of 
wit  and  brilliant  conversations,  the  lively  sallies 
across  the  festive  board,  which  was  beautified  by  the 
pillage  of  the  most  gorgeous  of  the  flower-beds  and 
the  rarest  and  most  delicate  of  the  ferns,  and  then 
the  speeches,  full  of  good  humor,  cordial  welcome, 
keen  appreciation,  or  what  not,  sending  every  one 
away  feeling  more  than  ever  the  joy  of  fellowship, 
and  the  delight  of  meeting  and  making  new  acquain- 
tances and  friends. 

Two  of  my  most  exciting  memories — three  in  fact 
— are,  first,  of  the  great  automobile  race.  I  don't 
remember  what  international  event  it  was,  or  what 
cup  and  moneys  were  to  be  the  prizes,  but  I  do  re- 
member seeing  the  heroes  of  the  auto  tracks,  and 
feeling  the  thrill  of  their  daring,  their  persistent 
speed,  their  plucky  spurts,  and  their  reckless  bravery. 
How  I  shouted — with  the  crowd — when  the  winner 
passed  the  grandstand,  and  how  sorry  I  felt  for  the 
defeated,  the  good  sports  who  took  their  overcoming 
as  good-naturedly — at  least  outwardly — as  the  win- 
ner took  his  success.  Then,  second,  I  saw  Joe  Bouquel 
make  those  wonderful  flights  of  his  that  surpassed 
the  earlier  ones  I  had  witnessed  of  poor,  ill-fated 
Beachy,  and  of  successful  and  youthful  Art  Smith. 
How  marvellous  his  twisting  and  turning  over  in  the 
region  of  the  clouds;  how  reckless  his  falling  like  a 


THE  SAN  DIEGO  EXPOSITION  21 

leaf,  fluttering  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  another, 
and  finally,  how  sad  his  last  descent,  when  his  flutter- 
ings  became  a  straight  descent  and  he  fell  never  to 
rise  again.  Though  he  was  the  third  man  I  had  seen 
fall  to  his  death,  it  did  not  deter  me  from  gaining  my 
third  exciting  memory,  though  it  was  only  indirectly 
connected  with  the  Exposition.  "The  Big  Swede," 
who  had  built  his  own  hydroplane  and  had  located  on 
the  bay  shore  near  to  the  old  artillery  barracks,  took 
me  up  one  morning  over  the  bay,  the  battleships, 
Coronado,  Point  Loma,  the  Pacific  ocean,  and  North 
island.  How  we  sailed  through  the  blue,  rising 
higher  and  higher  until  our  aneroid  registered  be- 
tween four  and  five  thousand  feet,  and  what  a  won- 
derful sensation  of  flight  I  enjoyed  as  we  came  shoot- 
ing down  in  a  graceful  slope  to  the  level  of  the  water 
at  a  speed  far  surpassing  that  ever  reached  in  the 
fastest  automobile  or  railway  train  on  which  I  have 
ever  ridden.  We  saw  the  Exposition  clearly  and  in 
detail  from  our  elevated  position,  and  that  real 
"bird's-eye  view"  of  it  will  ever  be  one  of  my  most 
enjoyable  recollections. 

Two  other  things  stand  out  definitely  and  force- 
fully in  my  Exposition  memories.  These  are  the  joy 
of  listening  to  Tommasino's  band,  and  the  delight  of 
watching  the  pigeons.  In  San  Francisco  one  heard 
so  many  bands — and  all  of  them  good — that  they  lost 
the  joy  of  intimate  personality.  Here  we  had  one 
good  band,  composed  throughout  of  excellent  per- 
formers, and  with  a  few  soloists  of  exceptional  pow- 
ers, the  whole  under  the  baton  of  a  superior  leader 
and  director.  We  expected  good  music  all  the  time 
and  were  never  disappointed.  At  times  the  band  rose 


22  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

to  heights  of  superlative  expression,  which  gave  us 
extraordinary  joy  and  established  memories  that  have 
lifted  us  into  higher  realms  of  musical  appreciation, 
and  San  Diego  can  never  again  be,  in  band  music, 
what  it  was  before  the  advent  of  Tommasino. 

Then  the  fluttering,  flying,  strutting,  winning,  woo- 
ing, refusing,  yielding  life  of  the  pigeons,  and  the 
pure  and  unadulterated  delight  so  many  thousands  of 
men,  women  and  children  received  from  these  beauti- 
ful domestic  birds,  who  can  describe  and  who  can  es- 
timate? This  was  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  of  thou- 
sands who  came,  either  as  casual  or  regular  visitors, 
to  the  Exposition.  The  irridescent  colors  of  their 
plumage  never  seemed  to  be  dimmed;  their  readiness 
to  eat  the  seeds  so  profusely  scattered  by  visitors 
was  never  diminished;  the  ardor  of  the  love-making 
of  the  males  never  once  ceased,  with  the  sweetness  of 
their  love-notes  ringing  in  the  air;  and  the  confident 
expectation  that  it  would  ever  continue  never  for  a 
moment  left  the  consciousness  of  the  females.  How 
interesting  it  all  was;  and  how  joyous  the  ecstatic 
notes  of  happy  children  constantly  rose  above  all 
other  sounds,  as  the  little  ones  felt  the  fearlessness 
of  the  birds,  as  they  alighted  on  shoulders,  laps, 
heads  and  arms.  It  was  a  lesson  in  universal  kin- 
ship to  many  people  who  never  before  had  seen 
hundreds  of  birds  under  the  influence  of  human  love 
which  sought  nothing  but  their  comfort  and 
pleasure. 

Then  how  dazzingly  beautiful  the  scene  when  they 
arose  in  flight,  circling  from  one  end  of  the  plaza  to 
the  other,  some  alighting  in  one  place,  and  some  else- 
where, while  still  others  flew  up  to  the  towers  above. 


THE  SAN  DIEGO  EXPOSITION  23 

As  the  sun  shone  upon  the  moving  wings  and  downy 
breasts  of  irridescent  sheen,  one  saw  or  imagined 
pictures  of  glorified  angels  winging  their  way  in  the 
sunshine  of  God's  smile  and  doing  His  service  in 
bringing  messages  of  joy  to  all  mankind. 

At  night,  too,  at  sunset  or  thereabouts,  after  being 
fed,  almost  with  one  accord,  they  arose  to  the  tow- 
ers, fluttered  and  gossipped  there,  some  inside,  some 
out,  until  the  full  flood  of  the  day's  activity  receded 
from  their  pretty  little  bodies,  and  then,  one  by  one 
the  laggards  found  their  perches  and  all  was  still 
save,  now  and  again,  a  belated  love-call,  a  sweet,  gen- 
tle coo,  from  a  sleepy  feathered  lover  to  his  mate. 

Thus  have  I  recalled  some  of  the  Exposition  mem- 
ories which  I  trust  will  never  be  forgotten.  Yet,  per- 
haps, one  of  the  most  lasting  and  permanent  of  all  my 
memories  will  be  of  the  city  of  San  Diego  spread  out 
before  me  as  I  stood  on  the  Cabrillo  bridge,  of  the 
glorious  Harbor  of  the  Sun  beyond,  with  sailing- 
vessels,  steam  vessels,  yachts,  rowboats  and  ferry- 
boats, as  well  as  U.  S.  warships,  cruisers  and  destroy- 
ers moving  to  and  fro,  or  firmly  anchored.  To  the 
east  and  south  were  the  mountains  of  the  United 
States  and  Mexico,  the  Silver  Strand  of  Coronado's 
connecting  isthmus,  and  before  us  Coronado  and 
North  island,  on  the  former  the  colossal  Hotel  del 
Coronado,  and  its  accompaniment  of  beautiful 
homes,  on  the  latter  the  aviation  headquarters.  Fur- 
ther out  was  the  Pacific  ocean  leading  the  eye  over 
its  placid  blue  to  Los  Coronados  islands  in  the  fur- 
ther distance,  looking  like  two  gigantic  memorial 
figures  lying  on  their  backs  awaiting  the  day  of  resur- 
rection, while  to  the  extreme  right,  was  Point  Loma, 


24  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

with  its  theosophical  headquarters,  wireless  station 
and  towers  and  the  old  lighthouse,  the  whole  forming 
a  picture  of  varied  splendors  seldom  equaled  and 
hard  to  surpass.  Thus,  both  in  itself  and  in  its  sur- 
roundings, the  San  Diego  Exposition  has  a  right  to 
claim  permanence,  for  has  not  Keats  truly  declared : 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever, 

Its  loveliness  increases;  it  shall  never  pass  into  nothingness. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   SAN   DIEGO   EXPOSITION 

"CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE 

CLASS" 

T  THE  Panama-Pacific  International  Ex- 
position, held  in  San  Francisco,  in  1915,  it 
was  my  great  pleasure  to  give  daily  illus- 
trated lectures  on  CALIFORNIA,  in  the  beau- 
tiful Sunset  Theater  of  the  Southern  Pacific 
Company's  wonderful  building.  Occasionally,  by 
request,  I  gave  lectures  in  the  Palace  of  Education  on 
some  phase  of  California  history  or  literature,  or  on 
the  individual  work  of  some  California  author.  All 
of  these  literary  lectures  were  attended  by  immense 
audiences,  hundreds  often  being  turned  away,  unable 
to  crowd  their  way  in,  as  every  available  inch  of 
standing  room  was  occupied.  The  avidity  with  which 
the  people  drank  of  the  small  stream  thus  poured 
out  of  information  about  California  and  its  Litera- 
ture was  so  remarkable  that  when,  the  following 
year,  I  was  engaged  to  continue  my  illustrated  lec- 
ture-work at  the  Panama-California  International 
Exposition  in  San  Diego,  I  determined  to  give  a  com- 
plete course  of  lectures  on  the  subject,  as  an  adjunct 
to  my  regular  work. 

Owing  to  a  little  broader  and  more  discriminating 
policy  being  followed  at  San  Diego  than  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, I  was  allowed  to  take  up  a  ''collection"  at  these 
special  literature  lectures,  thus  giving  to  the  audi- 


26  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

ence  the  privilege  of  paying  at  least  a  small  sum  for 
what  they  were  receiving  (a  highly  important  moral 
consideration  that  should  never  be  overlooked) , 
while  at  the  same  time  it  gave  to  me  some  small 
recompense  for  the  labor  and  expense  involved. 
These  lectures  were  given  by  the  courtesy  of  Walter 
Maloy,  the  general  manager  of  the  San  Joaquin  Val- 
ley Exposition  Association,  in  the  lecture  hall  of  the 
San  Joaquin  Valley  Counties  building,  a  small,  poor- 
ly-ventilated and  far  from  inviting  room,  but  which 
seemed,  at  the  time,  the  only  one  available.  As  the 
lectures  were  extraneous  to  the  work  for  which  my 
regular  subscribers  were  paying,  I  was  compelled  to 
choose  an  hour  for  their  delivery  outside  of  the  hours 
of  my  illustrated  lectures,  and  this  was  the  incon- 
venient one  of  12:45  p.  m.  on  Saturdays  and  Sun- 
days. This,  however,  soon  became  known  as  my 
especial  hour,  and  a  regular  audience  settled  down 
to  a  regular  attendance,  with  such  additions  and  ac- 
cretions at  each  lecture  as  a  floating  and  changeable 
attendance  at  the  Exposition  would  naturally  induce. 
At  the  illustrated  lectures,  in  the  very  nature  of 
the  peculiar  conditions  of  their  delivery,  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  audience  was  volatile,  restless,  unstable 
and  thoughtless.  In  wandering  through  the  building 
the  eye  was  arrested  by  the  representation  of  the 
"Big  Tree,"  the  cut  through  which  was  the  entrance 
to  the  lecture  hall.  Standing  here,  the  visitor  heard 
the  lecturer's  voice,  or  saw  the  pictures  rapidly  being 
changed  upon  the  screen,  and  often  out  of  sheer 
curiosity  was  impelled  to  enter.  Sometimes,  after 
a  few  moments,  or  minutes,  of  watching  and  listen- 
ing, the  auditor  and  his  or  her  friends  would  de- 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    27 

cide, — as  impulsively  as  he,  she,  had  decided  to 
enter, — that  he,  she,  had  heard  and  seen  enough,  and 
would  make  an  exodus,  totally  regardless  of,  or  indif- 
ferent to,  the  feelings  of  either  lecturer  or  the  bal- 
ance of  the  audience.  This  latter  portion  of  my 
auditors  was  composed  of  two  very  distinct  classes, 
viz. :  First,  those  who  had  learned  that  I  was  giving 
a  comprehensive  course  of  illustrated  instruction  on 
the  great  State  of  California,  as  the  result  of  a  thor- 
ough study  of  it,  ranging  over  thirty-five  years,  and 
who  came,  again  and  again,  to  hear  the  same  lecture, 
or  to  secure  the  good  of  the  thirty  or  forty  different 
lectures  as  they  were  scheduled,  and  Second,  the  edu- 
cated and  intelligent  visitors  to  the  Exposition  who 
were  glad  to  take  advantage  of  a  half  hour's  lecture 
to  learn  something  of  some  special  feature  of  Cali- 
fornia's attractiveness  or  commercial  importance. 
The  first  class  above  named  was  mainly  composed  of 
citizens  of  San  Diego  or  its  contiguous  towns. 

Here,  then,  was  an  audience  made  up  of  three  dis- 
tinct, separate  and  widely  different  units.  Its  solid, 
substantial  base  was  composed  of  the  two  elements, 
home  and  visiting,  that  earnestly  desired  to  listen  and 
learn;  the  balance  was  the  unheeding,  unthinking  hoi- 
polloi,  the  crowd,  the  mob,  the  hurrying  sight-seer, 
curious,  thoughtless,  restless,  and  totally  regardless 
of  the  serious  and  earnest  work  of  the  lecturer  and 
the  major  portion  of  his  audience. 

To  keep  this  volatile  and  thoughtless,  and  yet  in- 
evitable part  of  the  audience  from  dominating  the 
lecture-room  and  thus  destroying  the  work  I  was  en- 
gaged to  accomplish,  was  a  problem  that  has  taxed 
the  brains  of  far  greater  men  than  I,  and  few,  if  any, 


28  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

have  succeeded.  I  was  determined  to  succeed  or 
quit.  Therefore  I  laid  down  three  rules,  which  I 
vowed  should  be  impartially  enforced,  the  vigor  of 
which  should  be  stated  to  its  violators  with  unmis- 
takable clearness.  These  rules  were :  First,  no  talk- 
ing or  whispering  would  be  tolerated;  second,  no  pea- 
nut fiend  should  be  allowed  to  annoy  his  fellow- 
guests  by  his  shell-cracking,  and  then  throwing  the 
shells  upon  the  floor  to  be  trampled  upon,  and  third, 
no  crying  or  talking  baby  or  child  should  be  allowed 
to  disturb  or  distract  others  because  the  mother  was 
too  tired,  lazy,  thoughtless  or  indifferent  to  the  rights 
of  others,  to  take  her  noisy  little  one  out. 

To  lay  down  laws  is  one  thing;  to  enforce  them  an- 
other, yet  I  am  willing  to  leave  it  to  my  audiences,  or 
any  one  of  these  three  elements,  to  say  whether  I 
succeeded  or  not.  There  was  no  mistaking  even  my 
most  gentle  remonstrances,  and  if  those  failed  to  pro- 
duce the  required  results,  a  second  appeal — or,  if 
necessary,  demand — couched  in  more  forceful  words 
and  offered  in  more  positive  manner,  reached  the 
dulled  senses  of  the  most  thoughtless.  Seldom  was  a 
third  ucall"  required,  though  once  in  a  while  a  well- 
dressed,  apparently  well-to-do,  purse-proud,  stomach- 
proud  man  or  woman  resolutely  started  out  to  "talk 
if  he  wanted  to."  Upon  these  ill-bred  specimens  of 
the  genus  homo,  species,  porcine,  I  had  no  mercy,  and 
it  then  became  a  matter  of  such  desperate  earnestness 
to  me  that  I  would  rather  have  left  the  Exposition, 
never  to  return,  than  have  allowed  the  human  hog  to 
have  his  way.  Suffice  it  to  say  I  never  once  yielded, 
and  therefore  did  not  leave  the  Exposition. 

Three  interesting  outcomes  were  delightful  results 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    29 

of  this  determination  and  persistence  in  a  course  that 
all  my  professional  brethren  of  the  platform  vowed 
I  should  fail  in.  The  first  was  that  hundreds  of  in- 
telligent people  came  to  thank  me  for  the  joy  I  had 
given  them  of  being  freed  from  the  nuisance  and 
pest  of  the  whisperer,  the  peanut  shell-cracking  fiend, 
and  the  crying  or  noisy  baby.  The  second  was  that 
educators  from  all  over  the  United  States  came  per- 
sonally, or  wrote,  to  enquire  of  me  how  it  was  done, 
and  the  third  was  the  organization  of  a  "society," 
half  in  fun  and  half  in  earnest,  entitled  "The  Anti- 
Whispering  Society,"  the  spirit  of  which  caught  hold 
all  over  the  country  and  led  to  much  newspaper  and 
other  comment,  after  I  had  issued  the  following  ex- 
planatory letter: 

Who  is  there,  of  decent  susceptibilities,  who  has  not  been 
annoyed,  almost  to  the  limit  of  endurance,  at  a  sermon,  con- 
cert, lecture,  or  theatre  by  the  whispering  of  some  ill-bred, 
thoughtless,  or  inconsiderate  person  nearby?  Everybody  at 
some  time  or  another  has  been  pestered  by  the  whisperer,  and 
yet  we  do  not  seem  to  learn  the  lesson  that  OUR  whispering 
is  as  much  a  nuisance  and  irritation  to  others,  when  WE 
indulge  in  it,  as  the  OTHER  PERSON'S  is  to  us,  when 
HE  indulges  in  it. 

The  American  people  are  a  boastful  and  proud  people. 

Such  people  are  often  inconsiderate  of  the  rights  and  feel- 
ings of  others.  In  our  self-conscious  assertions  that  we  are 
as  good  as  anybody  else,  if  not  a  little  better,  we  are  apt  to 
be  impatient  of  anything  and  everything  that  seems  to  suggest 
that  we  are  not  perfectly  free  to  do  as  we  like.  We  believe 
in  personal  liberty.  We  claim  it  to  an  excessive  degree — a 
degree  totally  unknown  today  in  the  war-cursed  countries  of 
Europe.  I  would  not  curtail  any  person's  true  liberty  one 
iota,  willingly  or  consciously.  Yet  we  cannot  ignore  the  fact 
that  we  are  gregarious  beings,  and  that  in  our  gregarious 
life  our  own  personal  liberty  must  often  be  curtailed  for  the 


30  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

common  good.  I  have  the  perfect  right  to  blow  a  trombone 
or  to  beat  a  drum,  but  if  I  were  to  do  this  at  midnight  in  a 
residence  neighborhood,  and  keep  on  doing  it,  it  would  not 
be  long  before  an  injunction  would  be  sued  out  against  me 
or,  if  the  police  were  "onto  their  job,"  I  should  be  arrested, 
put  in  jail  or  under  bonds,  until  a  judge  and  jury  could  sit 
on  my  case  and  eventually  "sit  on"  my  conception  of  perfect 
personal  liberty. 

So  long  as  we  live  in  society  and  our  actions  affect  others, 
we  must,  as  far  as  is  consistent  with  proper  personal  develop- 
ment, consider  the  rights  and  liberties  of  others.  No  person 
has  the  right,  in  the  exercise  of  his  personal  freedom,  to 
entrench  upon  the  rights  of  another.  I  may  have  a  perfect 
right  to  keep  chickens,  but  if  I  allow  my  chickens  to  run 
loose  and  they  get  into  my  neighbor's  flower  or  vegetable 
garden  and  scratch  it  to  pieces,  my  right  ought  to  be  restricted, 
and  my  chickens  either  penned  up  or  ruthlessly  shot. 

Every  man  has  a  perfect  right  to  so  exercise  his  personal 
liberty  that  he  can  swing  his  arms  or  clenched  fists,  as  he 
chooses,  but  his  personal  liberty  to  do  this  ends  where  my 
nose  begins. 

Every  woman  has  a  perfect  liberty  to  speak  to  her  neighbor 
all  she  chooses,  but  at  a  concert,  lecture,  sermon  or  theater, 
her  freedom  to  do  this  ends  where  my  hearing  begins.  I  have 
the  right  to  listen  undisturbed.  This  is  inalienable.  No  one 
should  be  able  to  take  it  from  me.  Custom,  however,  is  very 
powerful,  and  custom  in  the  United  States  has,  so  far, 
allowed  this  inexcusable  encroachment  upon  another's  rights 
by  granting  to  the  whisperer  tolerance,  if  not  respect  and 
freedom  from  the  reproach  he  or  she  deserves.  I  deem  the 
time  ripe  for  a  change  in  this  custom.  The  whisperer  is 
entitled  neither  to  tolerance  or  respect.  He,  she,  is  ever  and 
always  a  pest  and  a  nuisance.  Well-bred,  educated  and 
taught  in  other  respects,  the  whisperer  is  ill-bred,  unedu- 
cated and  improperly  taught  so  long  as  his,  her,  whispering 
annoys  and  disturbs  others.  The  theft  of  one's  money  would 
be  regarded  as  a  crime  punishable  by  the  law,  by  imprison- 
ment and  disgrace,  but  the  far  more  serious  theft  of  one's 
time,  one's  opportunity  to  hear,  which  may  be  a  rare  one  and 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    31 

may  never  occur  again,  of  one's  peace  of  mind,  comfort  and 
pleasure,  this  theft  is  allowed  to  pass  by  uncensured,  unre- 
buked,  unchastised.  Personally,  though  I  am  a  poor  man 
in  this  world's  goods,  I  would  far  rather  submit  to  the  theft 
of  my  hard-earned  money,  than  to  the  theft  of  my  time,  my 
opportunity  to  listen,  my  peace,  equanimity  and  serenity.  The 
whisperer  is  a  thief  of  all  these  things.  His,  or  her,  whisper- 
ing habit  I  loathe,  I  despise,  I  condemn.  I  want  her,  or  him, 
also  to  know  my  feeling.  For  the  whisperer  seldom  or  never 
whispers  about  anything  that  amounts  to  anything.  If  it 
were  an  important  matter  that  led  to  the  chatter  or  disturbing 
SISS-SISS-SISSING,  one  could  train  himself  to  bear  it  with 
equanimity.  But  it  is  not.  No  habitual  whisperer  ever  had 
brains  enough  ever  to  speak  or  even  think  seriously  upon  any 
matter  unless  he  were  shocked,  shamed  or  forced  to  think. 

THE  ANTI-WHISPERING  SOCIETY  is  organized 
for  the  purpose  of  doing  this  very  thing.  To  those  who  are 
considerate  of  the  feelings  of  their  fellows,  a  hint  is  sufficient. 
But  the  habitual  whisperer  is  never  considerate.  She  will  see 
you  looking  at  her  with  every  sign  of  disapproval  on  your 
face;  will  hear  your  warning  SH !  SH!;  will  even  listen  to 
your  request  that  she  give  you  the  opportunity  to  listen  to  the 
speaker  or  singer  undisturbed,  and  with  as  little  care  as  a  cat 
shows  for  the  feeling  of  the  mouse  she  crunches  between  her 
carnivorous  teeth,  will  indifferently  and  defiantly  go  on  whis- 
pering and  annoying  not  only  yourself,  but  the  whole  of  the 
audience  near  enough  to  hear  her  aggravating  noise. 

I  was  present  on  one  occasion  at  the  Boston  Symphony 
concert,  and  during  the  whole  program  was  exasperated  by 
the  continuous  whispering  of  a  well-dressed,  well-appearing 
woman  who  sat  behind  me.  Several  remonstrating  looks, 
warning  SHS!  SHS!  from  others  as  well  as  myself  had  no 
effect  whatever,  and  we  secured  no  comfort  until,  finally,  I 
turned  around  and  bade  her  be  silent  or  go  home,  as  I  had 
paid  for  my  ticket  to  enjoy  the  music  and  did  not  relish  being 
swindled  out  of  it.  I  had  the  same  experience  in  New  York, 
at  the  first  performance  of  Parsifal.  I  had  just  crossed  the 
continent  and  had  gone  ahead  of  time  for  the  work  I  had  to 
do,  merely  to  hear  this  wonderful  music.  Before  me,  in  a 


32  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

box,  was  a  family  of  ill-bred,  inconsiderate,  but  evidently 
very  rich  people.  There  was  not  a  soul  among  them  that 
even  tried  to  listen  to  the  music,  and  they  kept  up  a  continual 
chattering — it  could  scarcely  be  called  whispering — during 
the  entire  first  part  of  the  performance.  Everybody  within 
hearing  felt  exasperated  and  outraged,  but  it  was  left  for  me 
to  remonstrate  with  paterfamilias.  He  began  to  abuse  and 
bulldoze,  but  a  few  sharp  sentences  and  a  threat  to  swear  out 
a  warrant  for  his  arrest,  brought  him  to  time.  Parsifal,  how- 
ever, was  largely  spoiled  for  me. 

Again,  during  the  time  when  the  great  oratorios  were 
given  every  Sunday  in  one  of  the  leading  churches  of  New 
York,  I  used  to  attend,  but  on  every  occasion  the  solos  and 
fine  parts  were  spoiled  by  the  rude  whispering  of  people  who 
should  never  have  been  allowed  to  enter  the  building,  or,  if 
there,  should  have  been  required  to  behave  with  due  respect 
to  their  fellow-guests. 

When  Paderewski  gave  his  thrilling  concerts  at  the 
Panama-Pacific  Exposition  in  San  Francisco,  quite  a  number 
of  people  around  me  were  annoyed  and  robbed  of  their  pleas- 
ure in  listening  by  the  whispering  of  a  couple  that  scarcely 
ceased  each  time  the  great  pianist  began  to  play.  When  I 
told  them  their  proper  place  was  out-of-doors,  where  they 
could  whisper  to  their  hearts'  content,  they  put  on  an  air  of 
being  abused  and  reviled,  and  only  when  my  fellow-sufferers 
clapped  at  my  remonstrance  did  it  dawn  upon  them  that  they 
had  been  thieves  and  robbers — thieves  of  other  people's  time 
and  opportunity  to  listen. 

There  are  certain  things  people  do  that  are  objectionable 
that  they  cannot  help.  One  must  sometimes  sneeze,  cough, 
blow  his  nose.  These  things  may  cause  disturbance  of  one's 
sensibilities,  but  everyone  sympathizes  and  is  sorry  for  the 
sufferer.  But  it  is  seldom  if  ever  necessary  to  whisper  when 
other  people  are  bending  all  their  energies  to  listening  to 
music,  orator  or  actor,  and  he  or  she  is  lacking  in  one  of  the 
first  and  most  important  elements  of  good  manners — that  of 
consideration  for  the  rights,  comforts  and  privileges  of 
others — who  thoughtlessly  or  purposely  deprives  them  of  the 
expected  pleasure  by  incontinent  whispering. 


^•K 


1 


EDWIN  MARKHAM,  IN  HIS  CALIFORNIA  DAYS 


FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    33 

Dr.  Humphrey  J.  Stewart,  the  eminent  San  Francisco 
organist,  honored  by  the  San  Diego  Exposition  officials  with 
the  invitation  to  be  the  official  organist  during  the  years 
1915-16,  has  been  so  annoyed  by  the  whisperers  that  he  has 
had  to  have  a  large  placard  painted  requesting  SILENCE, 
during  the  rendition  of  his  program.  Yet  this  has  little  or 
no  effect  with  a  certain  class  of  people — and  many  of  them 
are  good  people,  too,  in  other  things.  They  do  not,  appar- 
ently WILL  not  learn  that  THEIR  whispering  is  just  as 
annoying  as  that  of  others.  Only  yesterday,  a  gentleman 
who,  not  half  an  hour  before,  had  offered  prayer  in  my  hear- 
ing that  Almighty  God  would  make  us  considerate  of  the 
rights  and  feelings  of  others,  came  into  my  lecture-room,  sat 
down,  heard  me  rebuke  some  whispering  in  another  part  of 
the  room,  and  then  deliberately  turned  to  his  wife  and  began 
to  whisper.  Perverse?  Wilful?  Deliberate?  I  don't  sup- 
pose so!  Mere  lack  of  coherent  thought.  Putting  two  and 
two  together  and  realizing  that  they  make  four  in  YOUR 
case  exactly  as  they  do  in  the  case  of  the  notoriously  vile, 
wicked  and  reprobate. 

I  would  that  I  had  the  power  to  sear  it  into  every  person's 
consciousness  that  all  whispering  under  all  conditions,  to  all 
sentient  people  when  they  are  trying  to  listen,  is  a  pest  and 
a  nuisance.  For  this  is  exactly  what  I  mean,  exactly  what  I 
believe,  and  exactly  what  I  am  earnestly  desirous  that  people 
should  learn.  If  President  Wilson,  Czar  Nicholas,  Kaiser 
Wilhelm  or  Queen  Mary  were  to  whisper  while  I  was  trying 
to  listen  to  a  concert,  sermon  or  lecture,  it  would  be  just 
as  annoying  and  exasperating  as  though  it  were  done  by  the 
greatest  reprobate  in  America.  The  WHO  IT  IS  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  It  is  the  IT  IS  that  counts,  that  annoys, 
disturbs,  deprives,  robs  and  therefore  that  should  not  be. 

Hence  the  ANTI-WHISPERING  SOCIETY. 

I  may  be  wrong  in  my  idea  that  people  are  willing  to  join 
such  a  society.  Therefore  at  present  I'm  going  to  be  Presi- 
dent, Secretary,  Doorkeeper,  Janitor  and  Chief  High  Cock-a- 
lorum  of  the  whole  business.  Anyone  can  become  a  member 
and  enroll  himself,  or  herself,  by  observing  the  rule,  which  is 
as  follows: 


34  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

I  hereby  pledge  myself  that,  as  jar  as  I  possibly  can,  I  will 
discountenance  in  myself,  as  well  as  in  others,  the  whispering 
or  talking  habit,  during  any  religious  service,  concert,  lecture, 
or  other  gathering  where  people  are  assembled  to  listen. 

The  publication  of  this  letter  aroused  considerable 
interest  throughout  the  country.  The  Denver  Post 
devoted  a  whole  page  to  the  subject;  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Examiner  contained  several  long  articles  and 
published  letters  from  its  readers  who  approved  or 
disapproved  of  my  attitude;  and  many  papers  and 
magazines  commented  on  it  and  generally  favored 
the  suppression  of  the  whisperer  and  disturber  of  the 
listeners'  peace.  Hence  I  hope  the  good  work  will 
go  on. 

To  return,  now,  to  the  San  Diego  Exposition.  It 
will  readily  be  apparent  that  all  the  activities  I  have 
mentioned  mainly  had  to  do  with  the  audiences  at  the 
illustrated  lectures.  Yet,  as  the  literary  lectures  were 
given  in  the  same  hall,  and  the  crowds  were  passing 
through  the  main  building  during  their  delivery,  we 
— the  audience  and  myself — were  liable  to  be  in- 
truded upon  at  any  and  every  moment  by  the  same 
unthinking,  heedless,  noisy  element,  which  intrusion, 
of  course,  would  have  rendered  concentration  and 
coherency  of  thought  upon  some  definite  subject  prac- 
tically impossible.  Then,  too,  many  of  this  class  of 
people,  seeing  a  number  of  others  entering  the  lec- 
ture-hall, and  there  being  no  one  to  demand  of  them 
an  entrance  fee,  were  attracted  by  curiosity;  a  few, 
perhaps,  by  the  announcements  in  the  newspapers  of 
public  programs ;  others  by  the  repute  of  the  author- 
lecturer,  would  take  their  seats  in  the  lecture-hall,  lis- 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    35 

ten  a  few  moments,  become  tired,  disgusted  or  bored, 
or  find  they  were  uninterested,  and  immediately, 
totally  at  their  own  sweet  will  and  disregardful  of  the 
disturbance  and  annoyance  to  lecturer  and  audience, 
get  up  and  go  out.  To  keep  away  this  irritating  and 
altogether  unwelcome  element  seemed  a  problem,  un- 
til the  direct,  frank,  honest,  truthful  solution  sug- 
gested itself,  viz.,  of  telling  these  people  they  were 
invited  under  certain  conditions,  that  they  were  pres- 
ent purely  as  an  act  of  courtesy  on  my  part,  and  that 
"the  lecture  would  last  an  hour  and  a  quarter,  and 
if  they  could  not  stay  the  whole  period  through  I  de- 
sired that  they  immediately  leave  as  they  were  un- 
invited  and  wwwelcome."  As  a  rule  this  succeeded 
in  ridding  us  of  the  restless  element,  though  now  and 
again  a  porcine  member  remained,  only  to  clatter  out 
invariably  at  some  critical  point  in  the  reading  of  a 
poem,  or  when  any  disturbance  was  highly  irritating 
because  distractive  of  the  attention. 

If  it  were  possible,  I  generally  stopped  in  my  read- 
ing or  lecture,  called  the  offender's  attention  to  his 
gross  violation  of  the  rules  of  courtesy  and  good 
breeding,  bade  him  God-speed  on  his  exit  and  urged 
him  (often  her)  never  to  come  again  to  my  lectures 
until  he  was  ready  to  observe  the  common  courtesy 
that  gentlemen  and  ladies  always  observe  in  their  re- 
lationship to  their  fellow-guests  in  any  place  to  which 
they  have  been  invited. 

Of  course,  I  offended  many — for  in  the  aggregate 
during  the  year  there  were  many  offenders  to  be  of- 
fended— but  my  consolation  was  that  mayhap  I  had 
set  them  thinking,  and  God  knows  the  whole  Ameri- 
can nation  needs  it, — upon  their  rudeness  and  ill- 


36  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

manners,  often,  of  course,  only  the  result  of  sheer 
thoughtlessness. 

I  now  come  to  a  far  more  interesting,  though  I  do 
not  deem  it  any  more  important,  development  of  the 
work  of  the  Class.  The  subjects  of  my  lectures  on 
California  Literature  were  as  follows : 

( 1 )  Introductory :  The  California  Spirit  in  Literature ; 
(2)  The  Literature  of  the  Aborigines;  (3)  Literature  of  the 
Epoch  of  Spanish  Discovery;  (4)  Literature  of  the  Padres; 
(5)  Literature  of  the  Pioneers;  (6)  Founding  of  the  Over- 
land Monthly;  (7)  Joaquin  Miller,  the  Poet  of  the  Sierras; 
(8)  The  California  Humorists;  (9)  Ambrose  Bierce,  the 
Last  of  the  Satirists  and  Hjs  Great  Pupils,  George 
Sterling  and  Herman  Scheffauer;  (10)  Edwin  Markham, 
the  Poet  of  Humanity;  (11)  The  Nature  Writers;  (12) 
A  Cycle  of  Early  Verse;  (13)  The  Poets  of  San  Jose;  (14) 
The  Religious  Verse  of  California;  (15)  A  Cycle  of  Later 
California  Verse;  (16)  The  History  Writers  of  California; 
(17)  Some  California  Novelists;  (18)  A  Sextet  of  Women 
Novelists — Atherton,  Bonner,  Overton,  Charles,  Michelson 
and  Gates;  (19)  Frank  Norris,  Jack  London  and  Herman 
Whitaker;  (20)  The  Writers  of  San  Diego;  (21)  The 
Literature  of  Point  Loma  (Theosophical)  ;  (22)  The  Liter- 
ature of  Ellen  G.  White  (one  of  the  founders  of  the  Seventh 
Day  Adventist  movement). 

As  a  result  of  these  lectures  many  asked  for  fur- 
ther particulars  about  individual  authors,  and  there 
also  were  requests  that  certain  lectures  be  repeated. 
The  outcome  was  the  Exposition  officials  were  urged 
to  sent  aside  certain  days  upon  which  specified  Cali- 
fornia Authors  should  be  honored,  their  writings 
read  or  recited,  their  songs  sung,  and  an  address 
given  upon  their  work  and  its  accepted  or  relative 
place  in  literature. 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS.    37 

The  Authors  so  selected  for  honor,  and  their  days, 
were  as  follows : 

Oct.    10.  MARK  TWAIN  DAY. 

18.  BRET  HARTE  DAY. 

26.  EDWIN  MARKHAM  DAY. 
Nov.     2.  INA  COOLBRITH  DAY. 
9.  GEORGE  STERLING  DAY. 

16.  JOAQUIN  MILLER  DAY. 

24.  FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS  DAY. 

30.  JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY  DAY. 
Dec.      7.  JACK  LONDON  DAY. 

14.  JOSEPHINE  CLIFFORD  MCCRACKIN  DAY. 

21.  HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT  DAY. 

26.  ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  DAY. 

27.  GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES  DAY. 

28.  SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  DAY. 

These  celebrations  were  held  in  the  lecture-hall 
of  the  Southern  California  Counties  building,  by  the 
kind  courtesy  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  L.  Wilson, 
the  host  and  hostess,  and  whose  generous  hospitality 
the  Class  thoroughly  appreciated,  and  the  audience, 
whether  composed  of  visitors  or  the  people  of  San 
Diego,  can  never  fully  repay. 

Three  definite  and  clear  purposes  were  ever  kept 
in  mind  in  the  conducting  of  these  "Days."  The  first 
was  the  fullest  possible  presentation  of  the  life  and 
work  of  the  author  honored  in  order  that  his,  or  her, 
writings  might  be  more  fully  known  and  appreciated. 
The  second  was  to  arouse,  especially  in  the  students 
of  the  San  Diego  High  School  and  the  State  Normal 
School,  a  keener  interest  in  the  works  of  these  au- 
thors, and  the  third  was  to  secure,  by  means  of  the 
collections,  handsome,  autographed  photographs,  or 


38  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

busts,  of  the  authors  honored,  which  should  be 
placed,  at  the  close  of  the  Exposition,  in  the  San 
Diego  Public  Library  as  a  permanent  memorial  of 
the  work  of  the  Literature  Class  at  the  Exposition. 
The  various  Women's  Clubs  of  San  Diego  were 
invited  to  be  the  hostesses  and  their  presidents  the 
presiding  officers  on  each  of  the  occasions.  The 
clubs  and  presidents  thus  participating  were  as  fol- 
lows : 

BRET  HARTE  DAY,  OCTOBER  18 

Hostesses:    Members  of  the  Wednesday  Club. 
Chairman:  Mrs.  Edgar  J.  Kendall,  President. 

EDWIN  MARKHAM  DAY,  OCTOBER  26 

Hostesses:    Members  of  the  Public  Library  Staff. 
Chairman :  Mrs.  A.  E.  Horton. 

INA  COOLBRITH  DAY,  NOVEMBER  2 

Hostesses:    Members  of  the  Poetry  Society. 

Chairman:  Mrs.  Lila  Munroe  Tainter,  President  of  the 

San  Diego  Chapter  of  the  Poetry  Society  of 

America. 

GEORGE  STERLING  DAY,  NOVEMBER  9 

Hostesses:    Members  of  the  San  Diego  Club. 
Chairman:  Mrs.  E.  D.  Miller,  President. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER  DAY,  NOVEMBER  16 

Hostesses:    Members  College  Women's  Club. 
Chairman:  Mrs.  Grace  H.  Fraser,  Ex-President. 

FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS  DAY,  NOVEMBER  23 

Hostesses:    Members  of  the  Poetry  Society. 

Chairman:  Mrs.  Katherine  Howard,  Founder  of  the  San 
Diego  Chapter  of  the  Poetry  Society  of  Amer- 
ica. 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    39 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY  DAY,  NOVEMBER  30 
Hostesses:    Members  San  Diego  Women's  Press  Club. 
Chairman:  Mrs.  Maude  Ervay  Fagin,  President. 

JACK  LONDON  DAY,  DECEMBER  7 
Hostesses :    Members  of  College  Women's  Club. 
Chairman:  Mrs.  Adele  M.  Outcalt,  President. 

JOSEPHINE  CLIFFORD  MCCRACKIN  DAY,  DECEMBER  14 
Hostesses:    Members  Women's  Press  Club. 
Chairman :    Mrs.  Maribel  Yates,  President. 

HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT  DAY,  DECEMBER  21 

Hostesses:    Members  San  Diego  Writers'  Club. 
Chairman:    Mrs.  Maribel  Yates,  President. 

ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  DAY,  DECEMBER  26 

Hostesses:    Members  San  Diego  Club. 
Chairman:  Mrs.  E.  D.  Miller,  President. 

GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES  DAY,  DECEMBER  27 

Hostesses:     The  Ladies  of  the  Exposition  Literature  Class. 
Chairman:  Rev.   Charles  E.   Spalding,  Rector  Episcopal 
Church,  Coronado. 

SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS'  DAY,  DECEMBER  28 

Hostesses:     Members  Wednesday  Club. 
Chairman:  Miss  Emma  F.  Way,  Vice-President. 

The  Ridgeway  Tea  Company  of  Bombay,  Cal- 
cutta, London,  Paris  and  New  York,  under  the  Ex- 
position management  of  that  cultured  Hindoo,  Deva 
Ram  Sokul,  each  week  donated  tea,  with  all  necessary 
accompaniments,  which  the  hostesses  served,  making 
a  small  charge  for  each  cup,  the  amount  secured 
therefrom  going  to  pay  for  the  photographs  to  be 
placed  in  the  City  Library. 


40  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

All  the  objects  of  the  Class  were  more  or  less  suc- 
cessfully attained.  We  were  favored  with  the  pres- 
ence of  George  Sterling,  who  gave  some  most  inter- 
esting reminiscences  of  Joaquin  Miller,  Ambrose 
Bierce,  Edwin  Markham,  Jack  London  and  other 
California  literati.  Juanita,  the  daughter  of  Joaquin 
Miller,  came  from  The  Hights,  above  Oakland,  and 
directed  a  Garland  Dance,  with  song  of  her  own 
composition,  on  her  father's  Day.  Harold  Bell 
Wright  favored  us  with  his  presence,  made  a  brief 
address,  and  he  and  Mr.  Sterling  were  especially 
favored  by  the  Woman's  Board  of  the  Exposition, 
who  held  a  reception  in  their  beautiful  parlors  in 
their  honor.  Fred  Emerson  Brooks,  the  inimitable, 
the  versatile,  who  is  equally  noteworthy  as  a  deline- 
ator upon  the  platform  and  a  poet,  was  here,  not  only 
for  his  own  Day,  but  for  several  days,  and  charmed 
and  thrilled  the  thousands  with  his  humor,  pathos, 
and  dramatic  fire.  Josephine  Clifford  McCrackin, — 
who,  in  spite  of  her  seventy-eight  years,  is  as  young 
at  heart  as  a  girl  of  seventeen, — came  from  Santa 
Cruz,  and  told  us,  in  fascinating  simplicity,  of  her 
early-day  associations  with  Bret  Harte,  Ina  Cool- 
brith,  Joaquin  Miller,  Ambrose  Bierce  and  others, 
thrilling  her  auditors  with  the  recital  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  her  home  on  the  Santa  Cruz  mountains  by  a 
wide-spread  forest  fire. 

John  Vance  Cheney,  who,  for  some  years  past,  has 
resided  in  San  Diego,  gave  several  reminiscences  of 
his  association  with  Dana,  Edmund  Clarence  Sted- 
man,  and  others  of  the  great  Eastern  poets,  and  also 
told  the  interesting  story  of  how  he  came  to  write  the 
"Reply"  to  Markham's  "Man  With  the  Hoe,"  which 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    41 

won  him  the  prize  of  four  hundred  dollars  ($400), 
that  had  been  offered  by  Collis  P.  Huntington,  who 
regarded  Markham's  poem  as  an  affront  to  labor 
itself. 

Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe,  who  also  lives  in  San 
Diego,  was  present  on  her  Day,  and  gained  many 
new  friends,  who  realized  the  bravery  and  heroism 
of  her  own  life,  especially  in  the  early  Michigan  and 
Texas  days. 

The  inspiration  of  contact  with  these  rare  person- 
alities was  felt  in  increased  enthusiasm  and  interest 
in  the  study  of  their  works.  Comparatively  large 
numbers  of  copies  of  their  books  were  sold,  and  the 
City  Librarian  reported  demands  that  she  could  do 
no  more  than  merely  begin  to  satisfy.  And  this  is  a 
matter  not  to  be  lightly  passed  over.  To  me  it  is  of 
the  utmost  importance.  To  come  in  touch,  even  in  a 
limited  way,  with  the  soul-  and  mind-stimulating 
work  of  poets  like  Miller,  Markham,  Sterling, 
Cheney,  Brooks  and  Mrs.  Thorpe,  is  in  itself  an  in- 
spiration and  uplift,  but  to  feel  the  touch  of  the  per- 
sonality itself  is  to  awaken  an  interest,  a  sympathy,  a 
tie,  that  the  human  nature  of  us  quickly  responds  to. 

Every  one  of  these  poets  and  writers  is  immeas- 
urably better  known  to-day  in  San  Diego,  and  wher- 
ever the  visitors  to  the  Exposition  have  carried  the 
influence  of  California  Authors'  Days,  than  could 
have  resulted  in  any  other  way.  And  the  outcome  of 
a  larger  study  of  their  works  will  yield  quickened 
mental  and  spiritual  life  to  a  degree  that  only  eternity 
can  reveal. 

The  audiences  were  as  large  as,  and  oftentimes 
much  larger  than,  the  lecture-room  could  hold. 


42  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Some  of  the  students  of  the  schools  were  interested 
enough  to  attend  and  write  papers  upon  the  authors 
discussed,  and  the  Class  distributed  small  prizes  to 
those  whose  efforts  were  deemed  worthy.  The  col- 
lection of  photographs  was  and  is  a  joy  to  all  who 
have  seen  it,  being  a  rare,  beautiful,  and  valuable  ac- 
quisition to  any  library,  and  the  trustees  of  the  San 
Diego  Library  have  not  only  gratefully  acknowl- 
edged the  gift,  but  have  intimated  their  desire  to  set 
apart  a  good  sized  room  in  their  new  building  as  a 

CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  ROOM 

where  the  busts  will  occupy  positions  of  honor,  and 
the  photographs  be  placed  upon  the  walls.  The 
busts  referred  to  are  a  life-like  presentment  of  Joa- 
quin  Miller,  approved  by  his  wife  and  daughter, 
done  from  life  by  Rupert  Schmidt,  of  Alameda,  and 
one  of  myself  done  by  Miss  Helen  Mann  of  San 
Diego. 

Naturally  the  work  attendant  upon  these  Authors' 
Days  had  to  be  shared,  or  it  could  never  have  been 
accomplished.  The  lion's  part  of  the  executive  work 
fell  upon  Miss  Bertha  Bliss  Tyler,  of  The  White 
Bungalow,  1031  Hunter  Street,  San  Diego.  She 
made  all  the  necessary  arrangements  for  the  host- 
esses, chairmen,  vocalists,  accompanists,  readers  and 
reciters,  and  at  the  same  time  attended  largely  to  the 
necessary  work  of  newspaper  publicity.  The  secre- 
tary of  the  Literature  Class,  Leigh  A.  Hume,  was 
also  very  helpful,  as  were  many  others,  especially 
Mrs.  Marguerite  Cummings  Aber  and  Mrs.  J.  Kauf- 
mann. 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    43 

Another  result  of  our  Class  association  it  would 
be  ungracious  for  me  to  neglect  to  record.  Several 
members  had  purchased  copies  of  my  California 
Birthday  Book  from  which  they  learned  of  my  ap- 
proaching birthday  anniversary.  They  aroused  in- 
terest enough  in  the  Class  to  determine  to  celebrate 
it  in  some  way.  As  I  did  not  believe  in,  or  particular- 
ly care  for,  an  elaborate  restaurant  dinner,  I  took  the 
liberty  of  suggesting  that,  if  they  would  pay  for  the 
provisions,  I  would  myself  cook  them  as  I  had  done 
scores  of  times  over  a  campfire,  without  any  equipage 
of  stoves,  bars,  grates  or  grills,  using  only  frying- 
pans,  pots,  buckets  and  coffee-pots.  The  suggestion 
was  received  with  enthusiasm.  The  Exposition  of- 
ficials graciously  granted  us  the  use  of  the  Pepper 
Grove  and  allowed  us  to  build  a  campfire,  and  many 
hands  made  light  work  of  the  preparation.  At  four 
o'clock  I  was  still  lecturing  in  the  San  Joaquin  Valley 
hall;  it  was  4:15  before  I  arrived  at  the  Pepper 
Grove  and  began  to  direct  matters.  By  4:30  the 
campfire  was  blazing  and  potatoes  were  being 
scrubbed,  onions  peeled  and  sliced,  tables  brought 
and  set.  At  5  :30  the  guests  began  to  assemble,  and 
themselves  saw  the  cooking  of  the  fine,  large  porter- 
house steaks,  bacon ,  etc.,  that  I  had  promised. 
Promptly  at  six  o'clock  the  cry  went  up,  "Fall  in  at 
the  tables" — for  tables  and  rude  park  benches  had 
been  provided — a  grace  of  thanksgiving  was  offered, 
and  with  as  prompt  a  service  as  was  ever  given  at 
banquet  in  the  finest  hotel  in  the  world,  in  five  more 
minutes  over  one  hundred  guests  were  eating  the  first 
course  of  the  menu,  everything  piping  hot,  well  and 
satisfactorily  cooked,  appetizing  and  delicious. 


44  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Various  members  had  brought  the  "pots  and 
pans;"  I  had  personally  purchased  the  provisions; 
Hardy's  supplying  the  steaks  and  bacon,  Heller's  the 
general  groceries  and  vegetables  (kindly  donating 
the  coffee),  the  Globe  Mills  the  bread  and  dough- 
nuts, and  Showley  Bros., — the  candy  manufacturers 
— generously  sending  two  large  boxes  of  candies  and 
marshmallows  with  their  compliments,  while  the 
Ridgeway  Company  again  donated  the  tea  and  cakes. 

Every  guest  was  required  to  bring  his  own  spoon, 
knife  and  fork,  and  cup  or  mug,  the  dinner  being 
served  on  paper  plates. 

Members  of  the  Class  were  my  willing  assistants 
both  in  cooking  and  in  serving.  The  promptitude  of 
the  service  was  merely  owing  to  intelligent  direction. 
The  girls — from  sixteen  to  sixty  years  young — were 
allotted  to  certain  tables.  Each  one  came  first  to 
the  meat  table,  where  Mr.  Hume  and  I  were  cutting 
the  piping  hot  steaks  into  suitable  portions,  received 
the  quota  of  meat,  passed  on  rapidly  down  the  camp- 
fire  line  where  they  received  in  order,  a  slice  of  bacon, 
Irish  potato,  sweet  potato,  and  sweet  corn.  Every 
one  was  keyed  up  to  promptness  both  in  passing 
along  the  line,  and  in  receiving  from  those  who 
served,  and  in  fifty  seconds  from  the  time  a  plate  was 
thrust  before  me  for  meat,  it  had  received  all  its 
other  accompaniments  and  was  on  the  table  before 
the  guest,  who,  somehow,  seemed  well  informed  and 
ready  as  to  what  was  to  be  done  with  it.  This  de- 
partment of  the  procedure  required  neither  instruc- 
tion, direction  or  "keying  up."  Some  plates  came 
back  for  a  third — yes,  even  a  third  portion,  which 
was  readily  and  cheerfully  given,  for  I  believe  in  pro- 
viding plenty. 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    45 

For  dessert  the  Grape  Association  of  Escondido 
sent  four  boxes  of  the  richest,  most  luscious  and  de- 
licious muscat  grapes  ever  grown.  These,  with 
doughnuts,  coffee,  tea,  cheese,  candy  and  cakes, 
"topped  off"  the  meal  to  everyone's  satisfaction. 
Then,  while  the  ucooks  and  waiters"  ate  their  meal, 
the  rest  arranged  their  seats  around  the  campfire, 
which  was  now  built  up  to  rousing  and  blazing  pro- 
portions, casting  its  ruddy  glare  upon  the  happy,  con- 
tented and  satisfied  faces  and  bodies  of  the  guests, 
and  lighting  up  into  a  wierd  beauty  and  charm  the 
pepper  trees  beyond.  Then,  still  in  shirt-sleeves  and 
wearing  my  camping-out  overalls,  I  gave  an  address 
on  "Literature  in  its  Relation  to  Life,"  after  which 
we  all  went  home,  feeling  that  we  had  come  nearer 
to  each  other,  had  cemented  the  ties  of  new  friend- 
ships, and  gained  a  fuller  glimpse  into  the  beauty  and 
joy  of  life  than  we  had  ever  had  before. 

A  small  but  beautiful  souvenir  menu  of  the  occa- 
sion was  issued,  which  was  not  only  a  menu,  but  had 
the  following  original  lines  by  Miss  Bertha  Bliss 
Tyler: 

TO  GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES 

SEPTEMBER  27,  1858-1916 
Here's  to  his  fifty-eight  years 
Of  truth,  by  which  he  steers 
His  light  canoe, 
His  happy  crew: 
"Row  on!  Row  on!"  he  cheers! 

Miss  Tyler  also  gave  her  recipe  for  champagne,  as  follows: 
One  quart  water  from  fountain  of  "Living  Waters" ;  one 
pint  Universal  Love ;  one  gill  each,  Hope,  Aspiration,  Inspira- 
tion, Lucidity,  Individual  Freedom.     Mix  thoroughly.     Use 


46  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

after  three  months,  the  older  the  better.    Especially  desirable 
for  New  Year  Feasts. 

The  fame  of  this  dinner  spread,  and  many  came 
and  asked  that  it  be  repeated  as  they  were  unable  to 
attend;  but  this  did  not  seem  to  be  wise.  In  Decem- 
ber, however,  the  urge  was  so  strong  that  I  consented 
to  give  an  indoor  dinner,  the  chief  article  on  the  menu 
to  be  "Fruit  Soup,"  which  I  would  personally  pre- 
pare. Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  G.  Tyler,  the  host  and 
hostess  of  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  Counties  building, 
kindly  offered  the  use  of  the  foyer  for  the  affair, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fromm,  who  controlled  the  din- 
ing concession  of  the  building,  allowed  us  the  use  of 
the  kitchen,  with  its  gas-stove,  etc.,  and  also  the  din- 
ing tables  and  chairs  from  the  balcony.  When  the 
evening  of  Saturday,  December  9th,  arrived,  one 
hundred  and  twenty  people  sat  down  and  partook  of 
the  much-heralded  fruit  soup,  eaten  with  Grant's 
crackers  ^r  bread  and  butter,  and  followed  with  ham, 
covered  with  a  heavy  coating  of  rye-dough  and  well 
baked,  potatoes,  coffee,  tea,  bread  and  butter,  cheese, 
doughnuts,  cakes,  apples  and  candy. 

At  the  request  of  the  guests  I  fully  explained  how 
I  had  made  the  fruit  soup.  It  was  composed  of  dried 
peaches,  pears,  nectarines,  seedless  and  seeded  rai- 
sins, figs  and  prunes,  all  generously  contributed  by 
the  San  Joaquin  Valley  Counties  Association  (by 
Walter  Maloy,  manager),  and  fresh  apples  sliced. 
Every  particle  of  fruit  was  carefully  examined  and 
well  washed,  then  soaked  over  night.  It  was  then 
slowly  cooked,  mixed,  sugar  added,  and  thickened 
with  instantaneous  tapioca.  Oftentimes  I  use  ground 
whole-wheat,  barley,  cream  of  wheat,  oatmeal,  etc., 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    47 

as  thickening.  It  can  be  served  hot  or  cold,  at  the 
beginning,  end,  or  middle  of  a  meal;  it  is  healthful, 
nutritious,  delicious,  and  satisfying,  and  far  better  for 
children  and  adults  than  a  far  more  expensive  meat 
soup. 

Following  the  dinner  I  gave  an  address  on  The 
Literature  of  the  Aborigines,  and  told  a  number  of 
Indian  folk-lore  stones,  all  of  which  were  well  re- 
ceived. Miss  Edith  Brubaker,  the  original  Califor- 
nia Story-Telling-Girl,  who  had  just  returned  from  a 
tour  of  the  United  States,  gave  an  interesting  selec- 
tion, and  Mrs.  Lola  Broderson  sang  one  or  two 
songs. 

I  was  then  urged  to  sing  a  song,  "The  Trouba- 
dour," the  music  of  which  I  had  composed  many 
years  before,  and  to  which  words  were  written  by 
Alice  Ward  Bailey  when  she  introduced  the  melody 
into  her  Sagebrush  Parson  (the  first  half  of 
which  novel  is  largely  based  upon  my  life  as  a  Meth- 
odist Missionary  in  Nevada,  in  the  '80's).  This 
song  I  had  sung  on  ujack  London  Day,"  as  it  was 
one  of  which  he  was  very  fond.  Here  are  the 
words : 

THE  TROUBADOUR 

Reproduced  by  permission  from  "The  Sagebrush  Parson," 
by  Alice  Ward  Bailey. 

Along  the  shining  way  there  came, 
A  Troubadour !  A  Troubadour ! 
As  out  of  darkness  shines  a  flame : 

And  in  his  hand  no  harp  he  bore : 
He  sang  of  joy  in  overflow, 
He  sang  the  pain  mankind  must  know; 
And  they  who  listened  to  that  voice, 
With  it  did  mourn,  with  it  rejoice. 


48  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

But  more  than  this  thou  broughtest  me, 

0  Troubadour!    O  Troubadour! 
All  that  I  thought  and  meant  to  be, 
Like  flooding  wave  returns  once  more : 

I  take  the  joy,  I  dare  the  pain, 
Content  to  be  myself  again: 
Sing  on,  Sing  on,  as  God  hath  meant, 
My  Heart  shall  be  thy  instrument. 

At  its  close,  Mrs.  Katherine  Howard,  the  poet, 
and  author  of  The  Book  of  the  Serpent,  Eve, 
Candle  Flame,  Poems,  The  Little  God,  etc.,  etc., 
came  forward,  made  a  brief  and  tender  address,  and 
then,  handing  a  purse  to  me,  containing  dollars,  half- 
dollars,  quarters,  dimes  and  nickels,  which  my  gen- 
erous friends  had  spontaneously  contributed  during 
the  progress  of  the  dinner,  read  the  following  orig- 
inal lines  which  she  had  just  composed: 

THE  TROUBADOUR 

As  I  was  going  from  the  place 

1  met  a  little  lad — he  said  — 
"Who  is  the  tall  man  with  the  hair 
That  hangs  down  from  his  face 
Who  sang  about  the  troubadour? 

I  do  not  know,  I  am  not  sure, 
I  think  he  is  that  troubadour." 
And  then  I  thought  of  one  of  old 
Who  played  upon  a  harp  of  gold, 
A  harp  that  had  a  thousand  strings — 
And — yes — the  little  lad  I  told — 
He  surely  is  that  troubadour — 
He  plays  upon  the  human  harps 
Touching  their  thousand  strings. 

There  were  some  ten  gallons  of  the  soup  spared, 
for,  although  many  of  the  guests  sent  back  their 


THE  ORGAN  PAVILION  FROM  THE  OPPOSITE  ARCADE 


fflUl 


PATIO  OF  THE  SOUTHERN  CALIFORNIA  COUNTIES  BUILDING 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    49 

plates  for  a  second  and  even  a  third  helping,  I  had 
cooked  so  abundantly  that  this  surplus  remained. 
One  of  the  friends  took  it  the  next  morning  to  the 
Helping  Hand,  (a  charitable  organization  supported 
by  the  private  subscriptions  of  San  Diego  citizens  for 
the  assistance  of  elderly  women  and  men  and  those 
unable  to  find  work),  and  thus  gave  much  pleasure 
to  the  inmates,  by  whom  it  was  thoroughly  enjoyed. 
There  was  another  interesting  outcome  of  the 
work  of  the  Class  that  should  not  be  overlooked. 
During  my  stay  in  San  Francisco  I  had  formed  an 
intimate  and  sweet  friendship  with  Deva  Ram  Sokul, 
a  highly  educated  Hindoo,  who  was  in  the  employ  of 
the  Ridgeway  Tea  Company.  This  friendship  was 
joyfully  continued  when  we  both  found  ourselves  in 
San  Diego.  In  discussing  Hindoo  religious  poets, 
philosophers,  etc.,  the  name  of  Sir  Rabindranath  Ta- 
gore  naturally  came  up,  and  I  then  learned  that  the 
distinguished  Hindoo  winner  of  the  Nobel  Prize  for 
idealistic  literature  was  expected  upon  the  Pacific 
Coast  ere  long,  to  begin  a  course  of  lectures  in  the 
United  States.  I  suggested  that  we  invite  him  to  the 
Exposition  as  our  guest.  When  the  generous-hearted 
manager  of  Hotel  del  Coronado,  Mr.  Jno.  J.  Her- 
nan,  learned  of  our  interest  in  Tagore,  he  cordially 
co-operated  in  our  plans,  offered  "half  the  hotel  for 
the  poet's  entertainment  and  comfort,"  and  gave  a 
dinner  to  a  number  of  distinguished  guests  in  order 
that  they  might  extend  an  invitation  to  Sir  Rabindra- 
nath to  come  to  San  Diego.  One  of  these  guests  was 
Admiral  Fullam,  and  he  was  so  impressed  with  the 
international  importance  of  Tagore's  visit  to  the  Uni- 
ted States  that  he  sent  a  message  to  the  official  head 


50  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

of  the  wireless  telegraph  system  of  the  U.  S.  Navy, 
asking  that  permission  be  accorded  for  the  forward- 
ing of  the  invitation  by  the  government's  wireless 
free  of  charge.  The  reply  immediately  came,  giving 
gracious  consent  to  the  sending  of  the  radiograph 
over  the  Navy's  system.  Accordingly  at  the  Hotel 
del  Coronado  dinner,  a  message  was  formulated  and 
sent  direct  from  the  hotel. 

In  due  time  answer  came  that  Sir  Rabindranath 
Tagore  had  received  the  message  on  his  steamer  in 
mid-ocean.  An  additional  message  was  sent  to  him 
to  be  put  into  his  hands  on  arrival  at  Seattle,  but  it 
was  then  deemed  by  his  agent,  Mr.  Jno.  B.  Pond,  un- 
likely that  he  could  accept  the  invitation.  In  the 
meantime  great  interest  had  been  aroused  in  San 
Diego,  and  indeed,  all  over  California,  by  the  pub- 
lication of  the  radiograph  and  the  announcements 
that  Tagore  was  on  his  way.  In  San  Diego  and  at 
the  Exposition  many  requests  came  for  more  knowl- 
edge so  I  delivered  ten  or  a  dozen  lectures  upon  the 
poet  and  his  poems  and  spiritual  message  in  the  ball- 
room of  the  U.  S.  Grant  hotel,  at  Lemon  Grove,  in 
the  San  Joaquin  Valley  building,  New  Mexico  build- 
ing, Ridgeway's  Tea  pavilion,  etc.  Then  the  demand 
became  insistent  that  Tagore  be  brought  to  San 
Diego.  The  Exposition  officials  felt  they  could  not 
afford  to  risk  the  large  fee,  no  organization  in  the 
city  would  attempt  it,  so  finally,  the  Class,  through 
its  organizer,  called  upon  the  presidents  of  the 
Women's  Clubs  and  other  representative  men  and 
women  of  the  city,  announced  that  the  responsibility 
was  assumed  and  asked  their  hearty  co-operation. 
Mr.  Lyman  J.  Gage,  former  Secretary  of  the  Treas- 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    51 

ury,  generously  offered  to  help  meet  any  deficit,  and 
great  enthusiasm  was  aroused  when  it  was  announced 
that  Katherine  Tingley,  the  official  head  of  the  Uni- 
versal Brotherhood  and  Theosophical  Society,  of 
Point  Loma,  and  owner  of  the  Iris  Theater,  had 
kindly  offered  it  free  of  charge  for  the  purpose  of  the 
lecture.  Many  volunteer  workers  offered  to  sell 
tickets,  and  due  announcement  of  the  lecture  was 
made.  On  the  morning  of  the  opening  for  sale  of 
tickets  the  agent  of  the  theater  reported,  by  noon,  the 
sale  of  the  major  portion  of  the  house.  The  follow- 
ing day  scarce  a  seat  was  to  be  had,  and  when  the 
distinguished  lecturer  appeared  it  was  to  as  large  an 
audience  as  could  be  packed  into  the  theater  and  rep- 
resentative of  all  the  best  in  San  Diego  citizenship. 
I  had  the  honor  to  preside  and  introduce  Sir  Rabin- 
dranath  Tagore,  and  few  who  had  the  pleasure  of 
listening  to  his  impressive  lecture  "on  "The  Cult  of 
Nationalism"  will  ever  forget  that  dignified  person- 
ality, the  calm  serenity  of  his  every  movement,  the 
sweet  purity  of  his  face,  the  impressive  walk,  the 
penetrating,  rather  high-pitched  voice,  the  simple, 
eloquent  fervor  of  his  utterance,  and  the  soulful  sig- 
nificance with  which  his  message  was  charged. 

Lyman  J.  Gage,  in  commenting  upon  the  coming 
of  such  men  to  America  wisely  said  something  that 
America  and  other  countries  should  act  upon.  In  an 
interview  reported  in  the  San  Diego  Union,  of  Oc- 
tober 10,  1916,  he  said: 

I  do  not  think  too  much  emphasis  can  be  placed  upon  the 
international  importance  of  the  visits  of  such  men  as  the  poet 
Tagore  to  this  country.  I  believe  one  of  the  best  investments 
the  United  States  could  make  would  be  to  send  to  Japan, 


52  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

China,  India  and  other  Oriental  countries,  as  well  as  those  of 
Europe,  a  dozen  of  twenty  of  our  best  men,  men  of  power 
and  influence  in  large  affairs  and  well  able  to  deliver  in  a 
convincing  manner  the  great  lessons  of  our  democracy. 

They  should  visit  all  the  principal  cities  and  spend  a  few 
days  at  each  place,  getting  in  touch  with  the  biggest  men 
there,  studying  life  and  conditions  as  they  exist,  and  telling  of 
our  life  and  conditions.  They  could  be  furnished  with  letters 
of  introduction  from  notable  men  in  every  walk  of  life — in 
art,  science  and  letters — as  well  as  from  official  quarters,  and 
thus  they  would  be  well  received  everywhere.  Delivering  the 
true  message  of  America,  they  would  awaken  a  keener  realiza- 
tion of  fraternity,  of  friendliness,  of  our  desire  to  be  at  peace 
with  all  men.  They  would  provoke  a  wonderful  amount  of 
friendly  and  brotherly  feeling  toward  America  and  its  insti- 
tutions, and  awaken  a  great  desire  to  know  more  of  its  men 
of  literature,  art,  science  and  letters  and  their  viewpoint  of 
life. 

The  same  should  be  done  by  other  countries  in  regard  to 
us.  Japan,  China,  India  and  the  rest  should  send  their  great 
men  here.  Let  us  know  their  ideals  and  aims,  their  history 
and  their  ambitions ;  let  them  give  to  us  their  message.  The 
silent  influence  of  such  contact  would  be  irresistible.  Men, 
having  heard  such  messages,  would  never  be  the  same  again. 
Their  narrowness,  bigotry,  exclusiveness  would  be  under- 
mined and  they  would  gradually  or  rapidly  grow  to  a  larger, 
wider  viewpoint,  a  broader  conception  of  the  oneness  of  all 
mankind,  and  a  friendliness  never  before  known. 

It  is  not  inappropriate  here  to  mention,  in  connec- 
tion with  Tagore's  visit,  that  the  Class  and  its  presi- 
dent did  not  seek  to  make  a  monetary  profit  out  of 
the  lecture.  In  no  city  on  the  Coast,  or  the  country 
generally,  were  the  charges  of  admission  so  low  as  in 
San  Diego,  none  of  the  seats  (except  in  a  few  of  the 
boxes),  selling  for  more  than  a  dollar  each,  thus 
giving  to  practically  everyone  the  opportunity  to  see 
and  hear  the  famous  Oriental  whose  message  to  the 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    53 

Occident  it  so  much  needs.  The  profit  that  was  made 
was  largely  used  to  meet  the  expenses  of  the  Authors' 
Days  and  pay  the  balance  owing  on  the  photographs, 
etc.,  donated  to  the  public  library. 

To  return  now  to  the  lectures  given  to  the  Class. 

When  the  course  of  California  Literature  lectures 
was  completed,  I  took  up  a  course  on  Robert  Brown- 
ing. After  reading  many  of  the  lesser  poems,  a 
fairly  comprehensive  survey  was  made  of  "The  Ring 
and  the  Book."  Then  I  sought  to  give  a  full  pre- 
sentation of  Browning's  philosophy  of  life.  "Rabbi 
Ben  Ezra,"  "Saul,"  "Evelyn  Hope,"  "Prospice," 
"Pisgah-Sights,"  and  especially  "Abt  Vogler"  were 
read  and  commented  upon.  When  the  Browning 
course  was  completed,  the  Class  still  insisted  upon 
meeting,  so  lectures  on  Tagore,  Memory  Culture, 
Living  the  Radiant  Life,  etc.,  were  given,  thus  con- 
tinuing activities  up  to  the  end  of  the  year. 

Just  before  the  close  of  the  lectures  I  received  the 
following  letter.  It  is  so  striking  and  so  fully  reveals 
what  many  others  partially  or  wholly  expressed,  that 
I  feel  justified  in  quoting  it,  especially  as  it  has  no 
definite  signature : 

Coronado,  December  19,  1916. 
Dear  Doctor  James : 

The  official  life  of  our  beloved  Exposition  will  soon  be 
ended,  leaving  only  beautiful  and  fragrant  memory;  but  the 
influence  on  Southern  California,  and  especially  on  this  com- 
munity, who  can  estimate?  "The  placing  of  San  Diego  on 
the  map,"  valuable  as  that  achievement  may  be,  from  a  purely 
material  point  of  view,  sinks  into  insignificance  when  one 
thinks  of  the  uplift  received  by  this  community  in  artistic, 
intellectual,  spiritual,  and  many  other  lines,  which  I  am  cer- 
tain will  leave  its  impress  for  all  time.  Many  have  been  the 


54  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

opportunities  for  improvement  and  growth  presented  to  the 
thinking  people  of  San  Diego  and  its  suburbs,  by  the  Ex- 
position itself  and  the  large  number  of  strong  men  and  women 
brought  here  under  its  auspices;  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
among  the  greatest  of  these  has  been  the  opportunity  to  lis- 
ten week  after  week  to  the  Sage  of  Pasadena. 

My  greatest  regret  is,  that  some  of  those  who  would  have 
received  the  greatest  benefit,  and  whose  presence  and  support 
would  have  been  an  inspiration  and  help  to  Dr.  James,  were 
unwilling  to  overlook  the  speaker's  unconventional,  and  at 
times  far  from  pleasing  forms  of  expression,  being  governed 
by  their  disgusts  rather  than  by  their  admiration,  thus  losing 
the  pleasure  and  great  profit  that  fell  to  the  fortunate  lot  of 
those  of  us,  who  were  led  from  week  to  week  into  pastures 
new,  and  beside  streams  heretofore  unknown.  Literature, 
Nature  and  the  Spiritual  World  yielded  up  their  hidden 
treasures  under  the  touch  of  one  whose  intuitive  perceptions, 
and  long  familiarity  with,  and  careful  study  of,  their  secrets, 
made  him  a  choice  guide  and  instructor.  The  literature  of 
California  was  little  known  and  still  less  appreciated  by  many 
of  Dr.  James's  hearers ;  especially  those  from  the  East,  whose 
eyes  have  been  opened  to  its  strength  and  beauty.  "Faithful 
are  the  wounds  of  a  friend" — even  though  a  little-known 
friend — and  though  loth  to  do  so,  I  must  confess  that  some- 
times the  real  friends  and  admirers  of  the  Sage  could  not 
help  wishing  that  he  might  be  moved  to  put  up  the  psalmist's 
petition:  "Set  a  watch  O  Lord  before  my  mouth;  keep  the 
door  of  my  lips."  With  this  wish  would  also  come  the 
realization  of  the  fact,  that  even  the  psalmist's  petition  would 
hardly  avail  in  the  case  of  a  personality  which  at  times  when 
in  action  suggested  a  combination  of  Theodore  Roosevelt, 
Robert  Browning,  Billy  Sunday  and  Tagore,  with  all  the 
faults  as  well  as  the  many  and  great  virtues  which  such  a 
combination  would  naturally  imply.  I  am  sure  that  in  the 
days  to  come  a  picture  will  sometimes  come  up  before  the 
writer  of  a  familiar  room  in  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  Building 
at  the  Exposition,  and  he  will  hear  those  well  remembered 
words — "This  lecture  will  last  about  an  hour  and  a  quarter 
and  all  who  cannot  remain  for  the  whole  lecture  will  please 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    55 

go  out  now,"  intended  as  they  always  were  to  try  and  teach 
thoughtless  people  the  value  of  courtesy  and  consideration  for 
others.  Their  memory  will  bring  a  smile  to  the  lips  and  a 
suggestion  of  moisture  to  the  eyes. 

The  Sage's  moral  and  spiritual  teachings,  while  sometimes 
couched  in  unusual  language,  will,  I  feel  certain,  tend  to  en- 
rich and  spiritualize  practically  the  lives  of  many  of  his 
hearers:  for  the  writer  at  least  felt  always  that  they  were 
the  heartfelt  expression  of  one  who  was  trying  to  live  up  to 
the  standard  set  for  us  by  the  Master  Himself  in  the  two 
great  commandments  of  love  to  God  and  love  to  our  fellow- 
men.  This  high  aim  has  enabled  him  to  develop  a  love  and 
practical  charity  broad  enough  to  include  not  only  a  noble, 
beautiful  character  like  Mrs.  McCrackin,  a  Jack  London, 
but  also  one  who,  though  gaining  some  fame,  was  regarded 
by  many  as  unmoral. 

May  the  years  of  Dr.  James's  life  be  many  and  happy  and 
may  his  love  long  abide  in  strength ;  and  when  comes  the 
day  when  that  seemingly  tireless  frame  fails  to  report  for 
duty;  when  the  silver  cord  is  finally  loosed  and  the  golden 
bowl  broken ;  when  the  Heavenly  Father  gives  that  new 
body  which  pleases  Him,  may  there  come  with  it  the  full 
realization  of  what  the  writer,  and  I  think  Dr.  James  be- 
lieves— that  now  we  are  the  Sons  of  God  and  that  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  is  indeed  within  us. 

This  is  the  wish  of  a  little-known  but  sincere  friend 
and  admirer  of  Dr.  James. 

This  letter,  in  its  frank  kindliness,  or  kindly  frank- 
ness, is  so  full  of  the  spirit  that  I  sought  to  inculcate 
that  it  seems  to  me  it  is  worth  far  more  than  a  mere 
casual  reading:  it  is  one  of  those  letters  that  a  true 
man  or  woman  will  seek  to  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly 
digest. 

At  the  close  of  the  year  my  work  called  me  away, 
and  one  might  naturally  have  thought  the  work  of 
the  Literature  Class  would  cease.  But  it  had  gained 
such  an  impulse  that  Miss  Bertha  Bliss  Tyler,  its  sec- 


56  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

retary,  was  impelled  to  lease  The  White  Bungalow, 
where  meetings  for  mutual  study  and  uplift,  without 
any  formal  organization,  would  be  carried  on. 

It  was  my  pleasure  to  dedicate  the  White  Bunga- 
low with  a  House  Blessing  Ceremony,  which  I 
adapted  from  a  simple  and  primitive  ceremonial  of 
the  Navaho  Indians  with  which  I  had  long  been 
familiar.  There  was  a  large  audience  present  as  the 
accompanying  picture  shows,  and  the  interest  in  the 
ceremony  was  so  great  that  it  has  resulted  in  the  pub- 
lication of  a  most  handsome  House  Blessing  Cere- 
mony and  Guest  Book. 

One  member  of  the  class  was  so  impressed  with 
the  ceremony  that  she  wrote  the  following  poem,  in 
which  the  spirit  of  the  Navahos  is  well  caught  and 
expressed: 

THE  HOUSE  DELIGHTFUL* 

Would  you  know  the  kind  host  in  the  house  of  delight? 
Do  not  picture  a  mansion  with  columns  of  might, 

With  a  garden,  where  amethyst  moss  fringes  beds 

And  where  millions  of  blossoms  lift  proudly  their  heads. 
There  are  mansions,  yes,  many,' as  might  be  portrayed 
With  gardens  and  columns  which  money  has  made. 

But  the  house  of  delight  among  these  is  not  found. 

Search  you  well  for  a  sprinkling  of  meal  o'er  the  ground. 

Now  this  brings  to  your  mind  little  knowledge,  I  trow, 

So  the  curtain  I'll  lift,  that  this  house  you  may  know. 
Come  with  me  to  the  plains  of  the  west,  wild  and  free, 
Where  the  blue  and  the  gold  of  the  sky  dance  in  glee. 

Arizona,  the  house  of  delight's  blessed  home ; 

The  fair  "City  Eternal,"  past  whose  gates  we  roam 
Away  out  to  the  desert.    "Such  rude  huts,"  you  say, 
"And  these  wild,  heathen  Indians,  with  faces  of  clay, 


Copyright,  1916,  by  Ida  Ghent  Stanford. 


THE  CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS    57 

Are  the  hosts  ?    Is  the  house  of  delights  but  a  hut  ? 

0  my  friend,  of  what  joke  have  you  made  us  the  butt?" 
Sit  you  down,  I'll  explain;  see  that  Navaho  there? 
His  hut  rude  ?    It  is  founded  on  song  and  on  prayer. 

He  is  heathen  ?    God  grant  that  a  heathen  I  be, 

If  this  home  is  a  heathen  abode  which  we  see. 

There  was  never  house  builded,  with  incense  as  sweet 
As  is  found  in  yon  hut,  kissed  by  brown,  unshod  feet. 

From  the  felling  of  logs,  to  the  kindling  of  fire, 
Are  these  huts  sacred  kept.    They  are  free  from  all  ire. 
Should  a  post  slip  its  place  and  a  cross  word  be  spoke 
Soon  the  whole  is  a  ruin  of  ashes  and  smoke. 
All  these  homes  that  you  see  stretched  out  over  the  plain 
Are  houses  delightful,  built  for  love  and  not  gain. 

Where  the  Medicine  Man  sprinkles  meal  from  a  bowl 
While  he  chants  from  the  deeps  of  his  innermost  soul. 

"To  the  East,  to  the  North,  to  the  South,  to  the  West, 

1  now  scatter  this  meal  that  peace  here  may  find  rest. 
That  this  house  be  delightful,  the  four  posts  are  blest 
With  meal  from  my  bowl,  that  true  love  fill  each  guest 

Who  seeks  here  a  shelter  from  sun  or  from  storm. 

May  this  house  be  delightful  for  children  unborn. 
May  all  who  here  enter,  as  friend  or  as  foe, 
Be  filled  with  the  Presence  of  God  ere  they  go." 

Every  figure  on  basket  or  blanket  speaks  rare 
All  of  duty  and  love.    Every  weave  is  a  prayer. 

O  brave  Navaho  Indian,  come  build  me  a  home 

And  pray  bless  with  your  meal,  that  Love's  peace  shall  not 

roam. 

And  O  Navaho  Chieftain,  come  teach  me  the  art 
Of  just  building  for  love;  that  each  arrow  and  dart 

Shall  be  sent  forth  all  white  and  all  quivering  with  peace  ; 

That  my  house  be  delightful ;  that  love  may  increase. 

Forgive  me  for  treading  where  daring  fools  tread. 

Here  the  angels  step  softly,  their  white  wings  outspread 
In  rich  blessings  unnumbered,  though  known  to  so  few, 
In  most  humble  contrition  I  bow  before  you. 


58  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Arizona,  no  marvel  thy  skies  are  so  blue. 

No  wonder  thy  atmosphere's  fresh  as  the  dew. 

Let  us  pray  that  our  country,  so  favored  and  blest, 
Shall  be  filled  with  the  Navaho's  peace,  and  his  rest. 

Of  the  work  of  The  White  Bungalow  much  might 
be  written,  but  it  would  be  a  little  beyond  the  scope 
of  this  book.  Yet  its  helpfulness  is  already  assured. 
During  a  visit  made  in  April,  1917,  many  men  and 
women  came  to  me  and  spoke  of  how  much  it  had 
meant  to  them.  Among  other  expressions  came  the 
following,  with  which  I  must  close  this  already  too- 
prolonged  chapter : 

LITTLE  WHITE  BUNGALOW 
By  GRACE  SHERBURNE  CONROE 

Little  White  Bungalow 

Perched  on  a  crest, 
Viewing  the  valley, — 

Symbol  of  rest. 

Strangers  have  loitered  here, 

Friendships  have  grown, 
Yielding  so  quickly,  to 

Love's  undertone. 

Dear  little  inmate, 

Helpfully  kind, 
Serving  in  gentleness, 

Culturing  mind, 

How  shall  we  cherish  thee 
Ages  to  come, 

When  He  in  wisdom 
Bids  thee  come  home. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    CALIFORNIA    AUTHORS' 
DAYS 


HE  following  are  extracts  from  some  of  the 
reports  of  the  Authors'  Days  published  in 
the  San  Diego  papers.  These  were  most 
generous  in  their  contribution  of  space  both 
in  announcing  the  Days,  and,  afterward,  in 
reporting  them,  and  these  quotations  are  given  with 
the  thought  that  a  hasty  reading  of  them  will  show 
the  wide  scope  of  the  literary  field  these  authors  have 
covered,  and  the  way  their  work  was  presented. 

MARK  TWAIN  DAY,  OCTOBER  10 

How  the  genial  humorist  would  have  enjoyed  seeing  our 
gloriously  beautiful  Exposition!  Every  nerve  of  him  would 
have  thrilled  to  its  dainty  exquisiteness.  The  tower  of  the 
California  building,  especially  when  lit  up  at  night,  or  when 
the  morning  sun  kisses  it  into  warmth,  with  the  perfect  blue 
canopy  over  it  would  have  reminded  him  of  his  own  words 
of  the  great  cathedral  at  Milan  or  the  pyramids  floating  in 
the  blue  of  the  Egyptian  sky. 

Mark  loved  the  West  in  many  ways.  It  made  him.  It 
gave  him  his  first  impulses  toward  literature.  For  it  he  wrote 
his  first  book,  "Innocents  Abroad"  in  the  form  of  newspaper 
letters.  His  "Jumping  Frog  of  Calaveras  County"  added  to 
his  fame  and  his  blue  jay  story  in  "A  Tramp  Abroad"  could 
never  have  been  written  had  he  not  thoroughly  learned  the 
habits  of  the  California  blue  jay.  Hence  it  is  appropriate  that 
Mark  Twain  should  be  honored  by  our  Exposition  officials 
and  today  set  apart  as  Mark  Twain  Day. 


60  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

BRET  HARTE  DAY,  OCTOBER  20 

Dr.  George  Wharton  James,  the  noted  lecturer,  paid  an 
admirable  appreciation  to  Harte's  unusual  literary  gifts  in 
providing  an  unusual  epoch  not  only  to  California  history, 
but  to  the  history  of  the  world.  He  said : 

"Few  California  writers  have  reflected  so  much  glory  upon 
their  Golden  State  as  did  Bret  Harte,  the  first  editor  of  the 
Overland  Monthly,  the  writer  of  'The  Heathen  Chinee,' 
'The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat/  'The  Luck  of  Roaring 
Camp,'  and  one  hundred  other  dialect  poems  and  stories  that 
have  thrilled,  charmed,  delighted  and  amused  the  world. 

"As  a  writer  of  short  stories,  the  master  critics  of  Europe 
place  him  in  the  front  rank,  many  of  them  assigning  him  a 
place  higher  than  Poe.  Even  Maupassant  is  praised  by  being 
compared  with  the  greater  Californian,  and  to  those  who 
love  clearness  in  their  stories  as  well  as  interest,  Harte  and 
Maupassant  cannot  be  placed  in  the  same  class,  for  the 
French  writer  depends  for  much  of  his  interest  upon  the  un- 
clean, immoral  and  shady  side  of  sex  life.  Harte  was  never, 
but  once,  charged  with  this,  and  that  episode  in  his  literary 
career  is  one  of  the  most  amusing,  though  at  the  time  it  stirred 
a  tempest  in  a  teapot  which  few  Californians  of  today 
realize. 

"Yet  the  very  story — 'The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp' — for 
which  he  was  attacked,  I  have  read  to  convent  schools,  young 
ladies'  seminaries  and  church  socials  and  no  one  has  been  of- 
fended, and  no  one's  morals  corrupted.  It  was  this  same  story 
that  brought  Harte  an  offer  from  the  staid  and  serious  'At- 
lantic Monthly'  of  $10,000  a  year  if  he  would  write  a  story 
a  month  equal  to  it." 

Harte's  dialect  poems  are  world  famous,  "The  Heathen 
Chinee"  having  received  as  great  applause  as  did  Mark 
Twain's  "Jumping  Frog  of  Calaveras  County."  His  "So- 
ciety on  the  Stanislaus"  and  "Jim,"  and  "Cecily"  ever  bring 
applause  when  read  aloud  or  tears  to  the  eyes  when  perused 
in  silence.  Who  is  there  that  has  not  thrilled  to  his  "Dickens 
in  Camp,"  or  responded  to  his  arousing  and  stimulating 
"Reveille,"  and  his  "San  Francisco"  is  one  of  the  oftenest 
quoted  poems  of  California. 


CALIFORNIA  AUTHORS'  DAYS  61 

Dr.  James  then  analyzed  "The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp" 
and  read  portions  of  it.  This  was  followed  by  the  reading 
of  "Cecily,"  and,  by  request,  "San  Francisco." 

Mrs.  Alice  Farnham,  contralto,  sang  charmingly  one  of 
Harte's  poems,  "What  the  Chimney  Sang,"  which  has  been 
set  to  music  by  Gertrude  Griswold,  the  piano  accompani- 
ment being  played  by  Mrs.  Alice  Barnett  Price.  Miss  Helene 
Richards  recited  two  of  the  best  known  Harte  poems,  "The 
Heathen  Chinee"  and  "Ramon,  the  Drunken  Engineer." 

EDWIN  MARKHAM  DAY,  OCTOBER  26 

The  growing  popularity  of  the  California  Authors'  days, 
now  being  celebrated  at  the  Exposition,  was  attested  Thurs- 
day afternoon  by  the  enthusiastic  assemblage  of  people  which 
gathered  in  the  patio  of  the  Southern  Counties  building  for 
the  celebration  of  the  Edwin  Markham  Day.  The  program 
was  opened  with  a  soprano  solo,  "Joy  of  the  Morning,"  words 
by  Edwin  Markham,  music  by  Harriet  Ware,  sung  by  Mrs. 
Charles  P.  White,  and  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Price.  Mrs. 
White's  clear  voice,  clean-cut  phrases  and  spontaniety  of 
feeling,  were  a  delight  to  all  who  heard  her,  while  the  ac- 
companiment by  Mrs.  Price  was  rendered  with  delicacy  and 
unity  of  feeling. 

Miss  Emmeline  Lowenstein  then  read  "The  Hindu  Poet," 
by  Edwin  Markham. 

This  was  followed  by  a  musical  setting  of  "The  Man  with 
a  Hoe,"  sung  by  Mr.  Hart,  its  composer,  and  accompanied 
on  the  piano  by  George  Edwards.  Mr.  Hart's  rendering  of 
the  Markham  masterpiece  showed  a  deep  insight  and  thor- 
ough sympathy,  and  his  music,  in  its  dramatic  style,  anguished 
tones  and  unusual  intervals,  portrayed  its  spirit. 

Dr.  George  Wharton  James  then  lectured  on  the  life  and 
works  of  Edwin  Markham,  beginning  his  address  with  an 
appreciation  of  the  preceding  number  in  its  faithful  musical 
portrayal  of  the  spirit  of  "The  Man  with  a  Hoe." 

He  also  said : 

"Breathing  California's  pure  air,  bright  sunshine,  odorous 
flowers  in  nearly  every  poem  he  writes ;  filled  with  the  spirit 
of  California's  largeness  and  freedom;  urged  by  her  moun- 


62  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

tains  and  snowy  peaks  to  higher  aspiration  and  greater  purity, 
encouraged  to  wider  and  vaster  outlook  by  her  immense  des- 
erts and  great  ocean,  what  wonder  that  Edwin  Markham, 
while  world  poet,  is  essentially  hailed  as  a  California  poet. 

"His  first  great  poem  was  thought  out  within  her  borders, 
and  the  scenes  of  many  of  his  lesser  and  later  poems  are 
located  in  the  borders  of  the  Golden  State.  His  'Joy  of  the 
Hills'  is  full  of  memories  of  his  delightful  rides  over  the  hills 
and  mountains  of  the  northern  counties.  Its  fields,  trees, 
flowers,  birds,  animals,  clouds,  sunshine,  mountains,  canyons, 
ravines  and  foothills  were  the  first  books  he  ever  read,  and 
for  years  were  the  only  school  he  was  able  to  attend.  Like 
David,  the  psalmist,  he  was  a  'tender  of  sheep'  in  the  Suisun 
valley,  and  one  of  his  first  great  adventures  into  the  world 
was  when  he  and  a  companion  ventured  alone  into  the  woods 
of  Mendocino  county.  Here  he  was  solicited  by  a  vigorous 
looking  man  to  accompany  him  on  a  money-making  trip.  This 
man  afterwards  proved  to  be  a  noted  bandit  and  highway- 
man who  afterwards  served  a  term  in  San  Quentin. 

"In  turn  a  student  at  the  State  Normal  school,  a  black- 
smith, a  searcher  for  deeper  knowledge  at  the  college  at  Santa 
Rosa,  where  he  became  imbued  with  the  deep  spiritual  ideas 
of  Thomas  Lake  Harris,  then  a  teacher  in  one  of  the  first 
open-air  public  schools  of  California,  and  finally  superintend- 
ent of  the  Tompkins  School  of  Observation  in  Oakland,  it 
was  while  in  this  latter  position  that  his  'Man  With  a  Hoe' 
rang  through  the  world,  as  a  new  note  in  human  brotherhood. 
Christ  had  forcefully  sounded  the  original  note  two  thousand 
years  before,  but  not  in  all  the  days  since  had  it  been  so  ef- 
fectively renewed  as  when  Markham  localized  his  poetic  and 
forceful  powers  upon  it. 

"This  led  to  his  being  called  East  and  there  he  has  since 
dwelt.  He  is  one  of  the  few  men  in  this  age  who  have  been 
able  to  make  poetry  pay.  One  of  the  London  papers  at  the 
close  of  the  Boer  war  paid  him  $500  for  a  single  poem  that 
he  wrote  overnight,  and  The  Delineator  has  paid  him  the 
same  sum  for  a  poem  of  a  few  stanzas,  while  the  Exposition 
officials  in  San  Francisco  gave  him  $1000  for  his  poem  on 
their  great  fair." 


CALIFORNIA  AUTHORS'  DAYS  63 

Dr.  James'  rendering  in  his  own  inimitable  voice  and  un- 
derstanding of  "Outwitted,"  "Chant  of  the  Vultures,"  "Joy 
of  the  Hills"  and  "Child  Heart,"  were  enthusiastically  re- 
ceived. 

INA  COOLBRITH  DAY,  NOVEMBER  2 

One  of  the  most  interesting  celebrations  yet  observed  in  the 
series  of  California  Authors'  Days  at  the  Exposition  was  held 
on  Thursday  afternoon  at  the  Southern  Counties  building, 
in  honor  of  Ina  Coolbrith,  crowned  poet  laureate  of  Califor-. 
nia  by  Benjamin  Ide  Wheeler  at  the  Panama-Pacific  Interna- 
tional Exposition  at  San  Francisco  last  year. 

The  program  was  opened  by  two  selections  of  Ina  Cool- 
brith, "The  Leaf  and  the  Blade,"  and  "Tomorrow  Is  Too 
Far  Away,"  recited  by  Miss  Siegenfelder,  pupil  of  the  San 
Diego  School  of  Expression,  whose  excellent  work  was  en- 
thusiastically received  by  the  audience  which  filled  the  audi- 
torium. 

This  recital  was  followed  by  a  lecture  on  Miss  Coolbrith 
by  Dr.  Wharton  James,  who  added  to  his  biographical  sketch, 
many  interesting  personal  reminiscences,  which  showed  un- 
usual beauty  of  character,  with  also  its  touch  of  humor.  Dr. 
James  said  Miss  Coolbrith's  verse  sets  the  standard  par  ex- 
cellence for  finished  work  and  perfect  form  for  all  California 
writers  in  the  future. 

Preceding  the  final  number  of  the  program,  "Ode  to  the 
Nativity,"  words  by  Miss  Coolbrith  and  music  by  Dr.  Hum- 
phrey J.  Stewart,  which  was  sung  by  Mrs.  Alfreda  Beatty 
Allen,  Dr.  Stewart  spoke  of  its  being  written  in  an  hour, 
twenty  years  ago,  for  the  Christmas  supplement  to  the  San 
Francisco  Examiner.  Mrs.  Allen,  in  her  clear,  sweet,  sym- 
pathetic voice,  gave  a  rich  interpretation  of  this  exquisite 
melody,  in  its  gentle,  steady  movement,  from  its  soft,  tender 
opening  phrases,  to  its  triumphant  close,  while  Dr.  Stewart 
as  composer-accompanist  was  its  life-giving  center. 

Dr.  James  also  rendered,  by  special  request,  a  tuneful  little 
melody  of  his  own  composition,  to  Miss  Coolbrith's  exquisite 
poem,  "In  Blossom  Time,"  and  then  spoke  of  his  great  grati- 
fication at  being  able  to  announce  that  the  distinguished  and 
masterly  American  composer,  Mrs.  Amy  Beach,  had  just 


64  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

written  a  musical  setting  for  this  same  poem,  and  also  for 
Miss  Coolbrith's  "Meadow  Larks." 

GEORGE  STERLING  DAY,  NOVEMBER  9 

An  assemblage  of  nearly  500  people  gathered  in  the  audi- 
torium to  do  honor  to  George  Sterling,  visiting  poet  for  the 
day.  On  the  platform  were  the  chairman,  Mrs.  E.  D.  Mil- 
ler, president  of  the  San  Diego  Club,  Dr.  George  Wharton 
James,  George  Sterling  and  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

The  program  opened  with  a  selection,  "The  Builders,"  by 
George  Sterling,  recited  with*  an  unusually  clear  voice  and 
fine  feeling  by  Miss  Marion  Jennings,  pupil  of  the  San  Diego 
School  of  Expression. 

Dr.  James  then  lectured  on  the  life,  work  and  literary 
standard  of  the  guest  of  honor,  placing  George  Sterling  with 
the  master  poets  of  the  world:  Dante,  Goethe  and  Browning. 
Dr.  James'  readings  from  Mr.  Sterling's  "Testimony  of  the 
Suns,"  and  his  "War  Lords,"  "Two  Prayers,"  and  "Sonnet 
to  Ambrose  Bierce,"  were  enthusiastically  received  by  the 
large,  appreciative  audience. 

Then  followed  a  vocal  solo:  "Mediatrix,"  words  by  Mr. 
Sterling,  music  by  Lawrence  Zenda,  sung  by  Mrs.  Minty, 
mezzo-sop ranno,  with  an  accompaniment  of  taste  and  feeling 
by  Mrs.  Amy  Vincent.  Mrs.  Minty 's  full,  sustained  tones 
richly  interpreted  the  poet's  exquisite  tribute  to  music. 

Mrs.  Miller  than  graciously  presented  Mr.  Sterling,  as 
friend,  not  stranger,  since  Dr.  James'  lecture.  Mr.  Sterling 
talked  not  of  himself,  but  gave  many  personal  reminiscences 
of  Joaquin  Miller,  Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  Jack  London 
and  Ambrose  Bierce. 

After  a  "Welcome  and  God  Speed,"  by  Harold  Bell 
Wright,  the  meeting  then  adjourned  to  the  woman's  head- 
quarters in  the  California  State  building,  where  a  tea-recep- 
tion was  held  for  Harold  Bell  Wright  and  George  Sterling. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER  DAY,  NOVEMBER  16 

The  largest,  and  so  far  the  most  attractive  celebration 
yet  held  in  the  series  of  California  Authors'  days  at  the  Ex- 
position, was  that  in  honor  of  Joaquin  Miller.  In  antici- 


THE  MONTEZUMA  GARDENS,  PERGOLA,  AND  CALIFORNIA  TOWER 


GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES 

— Photo  by  Savoy  Studio,  San  Diego. 


CALIFORNIA  AUTHORS'  DAYS  65 

pation  of  a  large  audience  the  event  was  announced  for  the 
organ  pavilion,  and  fully  1500  people  assembled  to  do  honor 
to  the  Poet  of  the  Sierras. 

Miss  Juanita  Miller,  daughter  of  the  poet,  from  Oakland, 
was  present  as  guest  of  honor,  conducting  a  garland  dance, 
crowning  the  large  bust  of  Joaquin  Miller  for  the  public 
library.  Mrs.  Stevens,  and  Mr.  Winfred  Stevens  of  Los 
Angeles,  lifelong  friends  of  the  Joaquin  Miller  family,  were 
also  present  in  honor  of  the  day. 

The  program  opened  with  the  dignified  movement  of  "Co- 
lumbus" (Carlos  Troyer),  played  by  Tommasino's  band  in  a 
most  effective  manner,  the  arrangement  having  been  made 
especially  for  this  occasion  by  Tommasino. 

This  was  followed  by  two  Joaquin  Miller  poems,  "The 
Soldier  Tramp,"  and  "The  People's  Song  of  Peace,"  recited 
with  sympathy  and  ease  by  Mr.  Loren  Reed,  pupil  of  the 
San  Diego  School  of  Expression. 

Joaquin  Miller's  great  poem  "Columbus,"  set  to  music 
by  Carlos  Troyer  of  San  Francisco,  was  sung  by  Dean  Blake, 
accompanied  by  Dr.  Stewart  on  the  organ,  and  was  one  of 
the  great  hits  of  the  program. 

Dr.  James  then  lectured  on  Joaquin  Miller,  "poet  of  the 
West,"  "poet  of  the  Sierras,"  "poet  of  the  mining  camps," 
"poet  of  peace."  He  mentioned  briefly  the  poet's  popular 
plays:  "The  Danites,"  "The  Argonauts,"  and  "The  Days  of 
'49";  spoke  of  his  glorification  of  the  soldier,  never  of  war; 
his  belief  in  the  individuality  of  man,  the  fatherhood  of  God, 
and  death  as  a  transition  to  more  glorified  life;  his  humor, 
illustrated  by  the  following  sign  on  his  premises,  "The 
Hights,"  Oakland :  "Nothing  to  see  up  here  except  down 
yonder;"  paid  tribute  to  Carlos  Troyer  of  San  Francisco, 
composer  of  music  to  "Columbus;"  and  ended  by  reading, 
with  tremendous  conception  and  expression  the  poet's  master- 
piece, "Columbus,"  the  finest  national  poem,  according  to 
Lord  Tennyson,  ever  written  in  any  language. 

Then  followed  the  characteristic  feature  of  the  day — the 
garland  dance,  crowning  the  large  bust  of  Joaquin  Miller  for 
the  public  library,  which  stood  in  the  center  of  the  platform 
on  a  table  draped  with  an  American  flag.  The  flowers,  in 


66  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

nile  green,  red,  blue,  yellow  and  violet,  were  represented  by 
Miss  Juanita  Miller,  Miss  Margaret  Chatterson,  Mrs.  Ste- 
vens of  Los  Angeles,  Miss  Lois  Gibson,  and  Miss  Ruby  Gray. 
The  bees  were  represented  by  Mr.  Stevens  of  Los  Angeles, 
Mr.  Russel,  Mr.  Lubin,  Mr.  Dib,  and  Mr.  Loren  Reed. 
The  accompaniment  on  the  piano  was  played  by  Miss  Bertha 
Bliss  Tyler. 

FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS  DAY,  NOVEMBER  23 

In  the  course  of  his  address  on  Fred  Emerson  Brooks, 
given  to  an  audience  that  packed  the  Auditorium  of  the 
Southern  California  Counties  building  to  its  fullest  capacity, 
Dr.  George  Wharton  James  said : 

"Born  in  Waverly,  N.  Y.,  Brooks  came  to  California  in 
1873,  and  three  years  later  he  was  a  member  of  the  famous 
California  Theatre  Company,  under  John  McCullough. 
Soon  thereafter  he  made  his  first  noted  success.  He  was  in- 
strumental in  putting  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  comic  opera 
' Pinafore'  on  the  stage  of  the  old  San  Francisco  Tivoli,  tak- 
ing the  exacting  part  of  the  admiral.  For  this  he  wrote  some 
thirty  original  extra  stanzas,  adapted  to  local  conditions  and 
full  of  local  hits.  The  opera  became  so  popular  that  it  ran 
for  twelve  consecutive  weeks,  a  thing  hitherto  unknown  in 
San  Francisco. 

"Brooks  then  went  to  Arizona  to  start  a  Tivoli  of  his  own, 
but  found  the  towns  with  too  small  populations  to  support 
anything  of  the  kind.  But,  on  July  4,  1879,  I  think  it  was, 
the  people  of  Tombstone  asked  him  to  write  and  deliver  a 
patriotic  poem.  Tom  Fitch,  the  silver-tongued,  was  orator 
of  the  occasion,  but  Brooks'  poem  made  such  a  sensation  that 
the  following  year  he  was  asked  to  deliver  it  at  the  Mechan- 
ics' Pavilion  in  San  Francisco.  His  magnificent  delivery  on 
this  occasion  so  carried  away  the  audience  that  it  also  settled 
Brooks  in  the  determination  that  had  been  growing  in  him 
to  pass  his  life  in  literature  and  the  delivery  of  his  own  poems. 

"From  that  day  to  this,  he  has  been  the  poet  for  Fourth 
of  July  or  Memorial  Day  celebrations  every  year  either  in 
New  York  City  or  San  Francisco.  Three  times — once  in 
Boston,  once  in  Los  Angeles  and  once  in  San  Francisco — he 


CALIFORNIA  AUTHORS'  DAYS  67 

has  been  the  poet  of  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic — the 
only  public  poet  they  ever  have  had. 

Brooks'  power  lies  not  only  in  reaching  the  hearts  of  his 
hearers  by  his  sentiments,  which  are  always  human,  inspiring 
and  elevated,  but  in  his  wonderfully  dramatic  power  of  ex- 
pression. He  is  a  born  actor ;  his  face  reveals  every  inner 
emotion,  and  he  has  the  rare  power  of  communicating  to  his 
audiences  all  that  he  himself  feels. 

"One  of  his  great  poems  is  'Sherman's  March.'  This  he 
wrote  at  the  especial  request  of  General  Sherman,  and  he 
delivered  it  on  Memorial  Day  at  the  Metropolitan  opera 
house,  New  York,  in  1890,  before  a  vast  assemblage.  On 
August  11,  1891,  he  gave  the  same  poem  at  the  G.  A.  R. 
reunion.  In  this  poem  a  blind  soldier  is  represented  as  search- 
ing for  General  Sherman.  Accidentally  he  bumps  into  the 
general  unbeknown,  and  supposes  he  is  merely  a  comrade  of 
the  ranks.  Whereupon  he  gives  the  history  and  reason  for 
the  march,  with  its  results,  just  as  General  Sherman  wished 
the  country  to  know  and  understand. 

"At  the  1891  recital  General  Sherman  sat  on  the  platform, 
and  the  poet,  in  dramatic  representation  of  his  subject,  the 
blind  soldier,  stumbling  upon  the  general,  felt  of  his  buttons 
and  actually  made  him  perform  the  very  part  the  poem  as- 
sumes he  did.  On  the  platform  sat  hundreds  of  generals, 
officers  and  notable  men.  There  was  scarcely  a  dry  eye  in 
the  room  when  the  recital  ended,  and  the  applause  was  tre- 
mendous. 

"After  Sherman's  death,  at  the  memorial  service  held  for 
him,  Brooks  was  wired  for  to  come  and  give  the  same  poem, 
which  thrilled  the  assembled  thousands  to  tears  and  cheers. 

"Brooks  has  written  three  volumes  of  poems — 'Old  Ace, 
and  Other  Poems,'  'Pickett's  Charge,'  'The  Gravedigger'— 
and  a  volume  of  'Cream  Toasts.'  He  is  of  the  James 
Whitcomb  Riley  type,  full  of  homely  thoughts,  quaintly  ex- 
pressed, and  with  a  genuine,  warm,  rollicking,  humane  hu- 
mor that  delights  all  who  come  in  contact  with  him.  San 
Diego  may  well  consider  itself  fortunate  in  that  Mr.  Brooks 
was  secured  for  its  Author's  Day.  Recently  the  people 
of  Oakland  and  San  Francisco,  at  the  magnificent  Hotel 


68  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Oakland,  and  again  in  the  St.  Francis  in  San  Francisco,  ten- 
dered him  two  of  the  largest  public  receptions  ever  held,  and 
all  the  distinguished  men  and  women  of  the  two  great  cities 
of  the  bay  met  to  do  him  honor." 

Mr.  Brooks's  own  recital  so  captured  his  audience  that  he 
was  compelled  to  give  ten  or  a  dozen  more  complete  pro- 
grams ere  he  left  San  Diego:  Three  at  the  New  Mexico 
building,  one  in  the  U.  S.  Grant  ballroom,  one  at  the  First 
M.  E.  Church,  one  at  the  Unitarian  Church,  one  each  at  the 
San  Diego  and  Coronado  High  Schools,  and  several  private 
recitals.  Several  banquets  and  dinners  were  given  in  his 
honor,  and  no  entertainer  ever  came  to  San  Diego  and  so 
thoroughly  won  his  way  into  the  hearts  of  the  people  as  did 
Fred  Emerson  Brooks.  He  was  entertained  by  the  manager 
of  Hotel  del  Coronado,  Mr.  John  J.  Hernan,  and  in  San 
Diego  by  Mrs.  Jacob  Kaufmann. 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY  DAY,  NOVEMBER  30 

John  Vance  Cheney  Day  was  celebrated  in  the  Southern 
Counties  building,  November  30,  Thanksgiving  Day. 
.  The  program  was  opened  with  two  solos  by  Miss  Grace 
Cox,  mezzo-soprano,  "The  Day  Is  Gone,"  and  "The  Time 
of  Roses,"  words  by  Mr.  Cheney,  music  by  Margaret  Lang, 
and  Percy  Thorpe,  the  music  of  the  latter  being  especially 
effective,  and  well  rendered  by  Miss  Cox. 

Miss  Julia  Currier  then  recited  three  characteristic  poems 
of  Mr.  Cheney,  "Abraham  Lincoln,"  "The  Way  to  Learn," 
and  "The  Song  of  the  Country  Lass." 

Mr.  Cheney  then  addressed  the  audience,  telling  of  the 
motive  for  his  reply  to  Markham's  "The  Man  with  the 
Hoe,"  which,  incidentally,  was  the  $400  in  sight,  and  be- 
cause he  differed  with  the  philosophy  of  Markham,  a  fact 
which  Mr.  Markham  knew,  and  between  whom  the  friend- 
liest relations  existed.  Mr.  Cheney  gave  personal  reminis- 
cences of  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  whom  he  considered 
America's  keenest  critic  since  Lowell;  Thomas  Bailey  Aid- 
rich,  his  only  old  contemporary  now  living;  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  a  most  compelling  and  magnificent  human  being,  be- 
cause of  his  unusual  eye,  and  his  unequaled  power  of  utter- 


CALIFORNIA  AUTHORS'  DAYS  69 

ance;  Matthew  Arnold,  whom  the  American  public  did  not 
favor  because  he  said  there  was  a  crack  in  everything  God 
made;  Herbert  Spencer,  with  whom  he  had  little  in  com- 
mon; Joaquin  Miller,  the  nearest  born  poet  we  have  ever 
raised,  except  Edgar  Allen  Poe;  to  all  of  which  address  a 
most  interested  audience  gave  close  attention  and  hearty  ap- 
plause. 

A  feature  of  the  program  was  the  singing  of  a  Thanks- 
giving song  by  the  audience,  words  and  melody  by  Miss  Ber- 
tha Bliss  Tyler,  harmonization  and  piano  accompaniment  by 
Dr.  James,  the  words  being  presented  to  the  audience  in 
Thanksgiving  souvenirs. 

Dr.  James  then  gave  a  lecture  on  the  life  and  works  of 
Mr.  Cheney,  speaking  of  his  thrilling  love  of  nature,  and  his 
wonderful  power  of  arrangement  of  sounds,  which  last  abil- 
ity was  doubtless  due  to  his  thorough  musical  training. 

JACK  LONDON  DAY,  DECEMBER  7 

Jack  London  Day  was  celebrated  on  Thursday  at  the 
Southern  Counties  building,  with  Mrs.  Adele  M.  Outcalt, 
president  of  the  College  Woman's  Club,  acting  as  chairman. 
The  opening  number  was  a  soprano  solo,  in  keeping  with 
the  memorial  to  Mr.  London,  "The  Cry  to  Azrael,"  from 
the  Arabian  Cycle,  "The  Heart  of  Farazda,"  words  by  Olive 
M.  Long,  music  by  Malcolm  Dana  McMillan,  sung  by  Mrs. 
Lola  Broderson.  Mrs.  Broderson's  conception  of  the  selec- 
tion was  dramatic  throughout.  Miss  Ethel  Widener's  ac- 
companiment was  artistic  and  sympathetic. 

Mrs.  Outcalt  introduced  Dr.  James,  who  gave  a  loving, 
just  appreciation  of  the  great  merits  of  Jack  London's  life 
and  work,  claiming  for  him  absolute  sincerity  of  purpose,  as 
a  master  student  of  the  laws  of  evolution  and  economics,  the 
whole  motive  of  "The  Call  of  the  Wild,"  being  the  reversion 
to  type  discussed  by  Herbert  Spencer,  and  its  antitheses, 
"White  Fang,"  which  showed  the  power  of  love  to  repress 
the  lower  instincts.  Dr.  James  referred  at  length  to  his 
biography,  from  his  birth  near  Oakland,  till  his  death  on  his 
Glen  Ellen  ranch  on  November  22 ;  to  his  literary  aspirations 
and  successes,  and  to  the  undoubted  place  he  has  won  for 
himself  in  American  literature. 


70  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

JOSEPHINE  CLIFFORD  MCCRACKIN  DAY,  DECEMBER  14 

Josephine  Clifford  McCrackin  Day  was  celebrated  at  the 
Southern  Counties  building  on  Thursday,  beginning  at  2 :30 
p.  m.  with  a  tea  and  reception  to  Mrs.  McCrackin  of  Santa 
Cruz,  guest  of  honor,  members  of  the  San  Diego  Woman's 
Club,  acting  as  hostesses  to  the  large  gathering  assembled 
to  welcome  Mrs.  McCrackin. 

The  program  was  opened  by  Miss  Jennie  Herrman,  li- 
brarian of  the  San  Diego  County  Library,  who  also  gave  per- 
sonal reminiscences  of  an  acquaintanceship  with  Mrs.  Mc- 
Crackin in  Santa  Cruz. 

Hugh  J.  Baldwin,  who  was  to  have  spoken  on  the  hu- 
mane work  of  Mrs.  McCrackin,  being  absent,  Dr.  George 
Wharton  James  referred  briefly  to  her  fondness  for  animals, 
her  organizing  a  Society  for  the  Protection  of  Song  Birds 
in  1901,  and  of  her  being  vice-president  of  the  State  Audubon 
Society. 

Mrs.  McCrackin  then  addressed  the  audience,  speaking  of 
her  gratification  at  the  honor  conferred  upon  her  by  the  Press 
Club,  at  the  audience,  and  the  members  of  Dr.  James'  litera- 
ture class ;  that  she  lived  in  the  Santa  Cruz  mountains  for  24 
years;  had  made  pets  of  the  wild  birds,  mocking  birds  and 
quail.  She  then  gave  reminiscences  of  Ambrose  Bierce,  Her- 
man Scheffauer,  Dr.  Doyle,  George  Sterling  and  Edwin 
Markham,  all  of  whom  were  frequent  visitors  at  the  home 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  McCrackin  at  Santa  Cruz.  Mrs.  Mc- 
Crackin then  referred  to  the  devastation  of  their  home  by 
the  forest  fires;  of  her  photograph  taken  by  Bierce  in  the 
ruins;  and  closed  with  expressed  desire  for  continued  faith- 
fulness to  the  California  she  so  much  loved. 

Dr.  James  gave  the  biographical  facts  of  Mrs.  McCrack- 
in's  life,  from  her  birth  in  Germany;  of  her  father  as  lieu- 
tenant of  the  army  in  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  fighting  with 
Wellington ;  of  her  father  coming  to  the  United  States  and 
settling  in  St.  Louis,  where  the  young  girl  met  Lieutenant 
Clifford,  whom  she  married ;  of  her  crossing  the  plains  into 
New  Mexico ;  of  the  perils  of  travel  among  the  Apache  In- 
dians; of  the  incidents  connected  with  Toby,  her  pet  white 
horse,  the  favorite  of  all  the  officers  of  the  army;  of  her 


CALIFORNIA  AUTHORS'  DAYS  71 

tragic  life  with  Lieutenant  Clifford  and  her  final  escape, 
when  she  came  to  San  Francisco  and  became  one  of  the 
coterie  on  the  Overland  Monthly,  when  she  began  to 
write  in  behalf  of  the  preservation  of  the  redwoods 
and  with  others  secured  from  the  Legislature  an 
appropriation  of  $250,000  to  purchase  the  State 
National  Redwood  Park;  of  her  short,  but  happy,  life 
with  Mr.  McCrackin,  leading  legislator  of  Arizona;  of  his 
death  and  her  return  to  Santa  Cruz,  where  she  became  re- 
porter on  a  Santa  Cruz  newspaper  at  a  pitiably  small  in- 
come, preferring  the  life  of  independence  to  dependence  upon 
relatives ;  and  closed  with  a  fitting  tribute  to  her  bravery,  un- 
faltering courage  and  her  Christian  sweetness  and  cheerful- 
ness. 

HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT  DAY,  DECEMBER  21 

Harold  Bell  Wright  really  had  two  Days  at  the  Exposi- 
tion. Having  to  be  in  San  Diego  on  the  business  of  seeing  the 
premier  of  his  cinema  of  "The  Eyes  of  the  World,"  on  No- 
vember 30,  the  ladies  of  the  Exposition  Board  wished  to  do 
him  honor.  As  this,  too,  was  the  -day  set  apart  for  George 
Sterling,  the  Exposition  officials  tendered  both  novelist  and 
poet  a  dinner  at  the  Cristobal  Cafe.  Then,  as  Sterling  was 
the  author  set  apart  for  consideration  on  that  day,  Mr. 
Wright  graciously  devoted  his  afternoon  to  honoring  his 
poet  friend,  after  which  both  were  given  a  reception  by  the 
Ladies'  Board.  On  this  occasion,  however,  on  December  21, 
the  literary  exercises  were  devoted  to  Harold  Bell  Wright. 
A  crowded  house  showed  the  interest  aroused  in  his  work  and 
an  eager  desire  to  know  more  of  the  man  who  is  the  writer 
of  the  biggest  selling  novels  ever  written.  Dr.  George  Whar- 
ton  James  delivered  the  address  on  Mr.  Wright  and  his 
work.  He  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  on  the  occasion 
of  Harold  Bell  Wright's  appearance  on  George  Sterling  Day, 
and  the  dinner  given  at  the  Cristobal  Cafe,  this  Exposition 
honor  was  simultaneous  with  the  first  showing  in  this  country 
at  the  Cabrillo  Theater  of  the  first  cinema  production  of  one 
of  his  series  of  books,  "The  Eyes  of  the  World."  The  ad- 
dress teemed  with  interesting  facts  about  Mr.  Wright's  life, 
from  his  birth  in  1872  at  Rome,  Oneida  County,  New  York; 


72  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

his  teaching  in  a  Christian  College  in  Ohio,  and  later  enter- 
ing the  ministry  and  going  into  Southern  Missouri,  where 
he  wrote  his  "Shepherd  of  the  Hills,"  in  which  a  practical  re- 
ligion was  demonstrated ;  of  his  marriage  at  Pittsburg,  KasM 
where  "That  Printer  of  Udell's"  was  written ;  of  his  failure 
in  health,  when  he  came  to  California  and  became  minister 
of  the  Christian  Church  at  Redlands 

Then  his  health  failed  and  his  physician  urged  him  to  seek 
a  more  arid  region  in  which  to  live.  This  led  to  his  going 
into  the  Imperial  Valley,  where,  in  an  arrow-weed  house, 
built  with  his  own  hands,  he  wrote  "The  Calling  of  Dan 
Matthews."  Here,  too,  he  gathered  the  material  for,  and 
wrote  "Winning  of  Barbara  Worth,"  a  book  which  brought 
international  fame  to  the  Imperial  Valley,  and  his  "Eyes  of 
the  World,"  which  now  in  pictorial  form  is  being  presented 
to  millions  of  people  throughout  the  country. 

"The  Eyes  of  the  World"  has  had  a  sale  of  more  than  a 
million  copies.  Publishers  estimate  five  readers  of  a  book  to 
each  sale.  Estimating  at  this  ratio,  and  calling  Los  Angeles 
county  a  round  million  in  population,  it  would  seem  that  in 
that  one  county  alone,  some  50,000  people  have  read  "The 
Eyes  of  the  World."  Figuring  Southern  California's  popula- 
tion at  1,500,000,  there  are  70,000  in  that  portion  of  the 
State,  and  in  California  150,000  readers. 

The  figures  for  the  eight  books  of  Harold  Bell  Wright 
are  still  more  staggering.  These  include  "The  Shepherd  of 
the  Hills,"  "The  Calling  of  Dan  Matthews,"  "The  Winning 
of  Barbara  Worth,"  "That  Printer  of  Udell's,"  and  "Their 
Yesterdays."  The  total  sales  of  these  books  have  passed  the 
eight  million  mark.  At  the  publishers'  ratio  this  means  an 
amazing  total  of  40,000,000  readers  in  the  United  States,  or, 
as  nearly  as  can  be  expressed  in  figures,  one  person  out  of 
every  two  and  a  half  in  the  country  has  read  one  of  these 
books.  This  means  for  San  Diego  county  60,000. 

ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE  DAY,  DECEMBER  26 

Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe  Day  was  celebrated  in  the  South- 
ern Counties  building  yesterday.  Tea,  generously  donated 
by  the  Ridgeway  Company,  was  served  in  the  blue  room. 


CALIFORNIA  AUTHORS'  DAYS  73 

Following  the  tea,  a  recital  was  given  by  Mrs.  Sibylsammis 
MacDermid,  dramatic  soprano,  of  Chicago,  who  gave,  in 
opening  the  aria,  Mazetts'  valse  song,  "As  Through  the 
Streets,"  from  "La  Boheme."  Mrs.  MacDermid's  work 
showed  remarkable  color,  vivacity,  spontaniety,  the  mark  of 
genius  and  training.  Her  notes  were  round  and  full;  her 
voice,  rich,  sweet  and  powerful,  with  exceptionally  clear, 
high  tones;  while  her  enunciation  was  faultless.  This  aria 
was  followed  by  an  encore,  a  lullaby  by  Gertrude  Ross,  sung 
with  exquisite  sweetness.  Mrs.  MacDermid  than  sang  a 
group  of  songs,  written  by  her  husband,  a  composer  of  note, 
James  G.  MacDermid,  also  "The  House  o'Dream," 
written  by  Kendall  Banning,  and  set  to  music  by  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermid for  John  McCormack,  which  was  one  of  30  selected 
out  of  700  for  consideration,  and  was  the  only  one  selected 
from  the  30. 

Mrs.  MacDermid's  long,  tapering  notes  in  this  number, 
were  of  great  charm.  The  second  of  the  group  was  "Char- 
ity," words  by  Emily  Dickinson,  beginning:  "If  I  can  stop 
one  heart  from  breaking,  I  shall  not  have  lived  in  vain." 
This  selection  gave  opportunity  for  the  use  of  low,  rich 
tones,  and  delicate  portamento.  The  third  song  was  "If  I 
Knew  You  and  You  Knew  Me,"  words  by  Nixon  Water- 
man whose  marked  rythm  was  effectively  sung  by  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermid. Mention  is  fittingly  made  of  the  excellent  accom- 
panying of  Miss  Childs,  of  Thearle's  music  store. 

The  meeting  was  then  adjourned  to  the  auditorium,  and 
the  Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe  program  was  opened  with  dra- 
mation  rendition  of  "Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  Tonight," 
given  by  Miss  Emmeline  Lowenstein,  with  a  piano  accom- 
paniment by  Miss  Bertha  Bliss  Tyler.  Much  credit  is  due 
Miss  Lowenstein  for  her  excellent  rendering  of  this  difficult 
form  of  recitation. 

Dr.  James  then  lectured  on  the  author  of  "Curfew  Shall 
Not  Ring  Tonight,"  the  popular  ballad  translated  into  every 
tongue  of  civilized  countries.  Dr.  James  referred  to  the  fact 
that  this  far-famed  poem  was  not  written  by  a  master  of  liter- 
ature, not  by  one  whose  fame  was  made,  but  by  a  school  girl, 
who,  having  read  the  English  story  in  an  old  Peterson's  mag- 


74  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

azine,  of  April  11,  1867,  versified  it  at  the  expense  of  her 
school  lessons ;  of  its  later  publication  in  a  newspaper,  and  its 
consequent  popularity;  its  copyright,  unconsciously  to  its 
author,  taken  by  a  Boston  publishing  firm,  and  Mrs.  Thorpe 
receiving  nothing  in  royalties. 

Dr.  James  gave  a  brief  but  exceedingly  entertaining  bio- 
graphical sketch  of  the  author,  Rose  Hartwick,  of  her  birth 
in  Indiana ;  father's  loss  of  money  through  signing  a  note  of  a 
friend,  when  the  family  moved  to  Kansas,  suffering  from 
drought ;  then  moving  to  Michigan,  where,  through  constant 
misfortune,  the  future  author's  library  was  limited  to  two 
books,  besides  the  Bible;  a  dictionary,  and  a  copy  of  Byron, 
which  were  studied  diligently;  of  the  writing  and  later  pub- 
lication of  "Curfew"  in  "The  Detroit  Commercial" ;  of  her 
marriage,  life  in  Grand  Rapids,  in  Texas,  where  other  poems 
were  written,  and  of  her  arrival  in  California,  on  account 
of  ill  health. 

Other  of  Mrs.  Thorpe's  works  were  read  and  commented 
upon,  and  great  interest  was  aroused  when  it  was  shown 
that  she  had  written  many  novels  for  children,  as  well  as  the 
poems  that  gained  and  added  to  her  fame. 

The  chairman  then  called  upon  Mrs.  Thorpe,  who  gave 
a  short  address,  speaking  of  her  appreciation  of  the  honor 
of  a  day  set  apart  to  her;  of  her  30  years'  residence  in  San 
Diego;  of  her  being  honored  at  the  Chicago  Exposition,  the 
San  Francisco  Exposition,  but  her  greatest  appreciation  was 
of  the  honor  conferred  upon  her  by  the  San  Diego  Exposition, 
because,  said  she,  "This  is  my  home ;  and  you  are  my  friends." 

The  Day  following  the  Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe 
Day  was  devoted  to  the  authors  of  San  Diego.  The 
poems  and  other  selections  chosen  for  that  day  were 
so  numerous  that  not  only  was  a  long  afternoon  oc- 
cupied, but  it  was  essential  to  continue  the  reading 
until  the  following  Sunday  afternoon,  when  the  pro- 
gram was  completed.  The  poems,  etc.,  read  occupy 
the  body  of  this  book,  hence  no  comment  upon  them 
is  here  needed. 


CALIFORNIA  AUTHORS'  DAYS  75 

December  28  was  devoted  to  myself,  and  called 
George  Wharton  James  Day.  To  me  it  was  a  great 
honor  and  one  which  I  fully  appreciated.  So  much 
was  said  by  my  good  friends  that  I  cannot,  in  very 
modesty,  give  any  report  of  the  Day  myself.  Ac- 
cordingly I  have  asked  Miss  Bertha  Bliss  Tyler,  the 
efficient  secretary  of  the  Literature  Class,  to  prepare 
the  account,  in  which  a  brief  report  of  the  exercises 
of  the  Day  are  given,  together  with  such  other  mat- 
ter as  she  deems  appropriate. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    LITERATURE    OF    SAN 
DIEGO 


EFORE  presenting  the  poems  and  other 
writings  of  San  Diego  writers  read  on  San 
Diego  Authors'  Day  at  the  Exposition,  it  is 
well  that  we  recall  briefly  a  few,  at  least,  of 
San  Diego's  notable  writers  of  the  past.  It 
is  possible  that  some  of  the  most  important  letters  of 
the  Spanish  discoverers,  as  well  as  of  the  early  Fran- 
ciscan friars,  were  written  on,  or  near  the  bay  of 
San  Diego.  And  we  know  surely  that  some  of  the 
Governors'  reports  were  penned  in  this  city  of  the 
patron  saint  of  Spain.  Whether  James  O.  Pattie 
wrote  any  of  his  notable  memoirs  in  San  Diego  we 
do  not  know,  but  they  contain  many  memorable 
passages  of  unforgettable  events  that  transpired  here. 
Here,  too,  in  the  early  days  of  American  occu- 
pancy, came  Lieut.  George  H.  Derby,  known  to  the 
world  of  humor  and  letters  as  John  Phoenix  and 
Squibob.  His  Squibob  papers,  and  especially  his 
Phoenixiana,  are  regarded  as  worthy  of  high  place 
in  early  American  humor  and  only  a  few  years  ago 
John  Kendricks  Bangs  wrote  the  introduction  for  a 
new  edition  of  the  latter  work,  which,  on  publication, 
found  a  large  and  ready  sale. 

Some  of  Joaquin  Miller's  poems  were  written 
here,  for  during  boom  days  he  spent  many  months 
here,  as  did  also  Harr  Wagner  and  Madge  Morris, 


LITERATURE  OF  SAN  DIEGO  77 

both  of  whose  writings  graced  the  pages  of  The 
Golden  Era  while  it  was  being  published  in  San 
Diego.  Harr,  for  many  years,  has  been  the  editor 
of  the  Western  Journal  of  Education,  as  well  as  the 
author  of  several  noteworthy  short  stories,  while  his 
wife,  Mrs.  Madge  Morris  Wagner,  has  just  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  her  complete  works,  in  which  are 
some  of  the  gems  of  California  literature. 

Here,  too,  in  boom  days,  dwelt  and  wrote  Theo- 
dore S.  Van  Dyke,  whose  poetical  prose  book  South- 
ern California  has  long  been  the  inspiration  for 
many  writers,  and  whose  Millionaires  of  a  Day  gives 
a  vivid  picture  of  the  San  Diego  days  when  fortunes 
were  made  in  one  day  and  lost  the  next.  Van  Dyke's 
books  were  largely  quoted  from  by  Charles  Dudley 
Warner,  when  he  came  and  was  so  entranced  by  the 
newer-developed  and  feminine  half  of  California 
that  he  wrote  Our  Italy.  Another  writer  for  the 
great  Harpers  was  Charles  Nordhoff,  whose  books 
used  to  be  standards  for  those  seeking  information 
on  California,  or  Peninsula  California,  and  who 
lived  the  last  years  of  hLs  life  at  Coronado.  On  the 
island,  too,  Robert  Brewster  Stanton  came  to  re- 
cuperate from  the  hardships  of  his  trips  down  the 
perilous  canyons  of  the  Colorado  River,  and  there 
he  wrote  his  thrilling  accounts  of  his  two  trips,  one 
of  which  appeared  in  the  Cosmopolitan  Magazine, 
and  the  other  in  the  published  translations  of  the 
learned  Engineer's  Society  to  which  he  belonged. 

Another  of  the  noted,  indeed  world-famed  au- 
thors of  San  Diego,  is  Dr.  P.  C.  Remondino.  Born 
in  Turin,  Italy,  a  physician  in  the  Franco-Prussian 
War,  he  came  early  to  San  Diego  and  identified  him- 


78  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

self  with  all  its  forward  movements.  His  Medi- 
terranean Shores  of  Southern  California  has  ever 
been  regarded  as  the  standard  work  on  climatology 
for  this  region.  Here,  too,  he  wrote  his  famous  book 
on  Circumcision  which  is  as  well  known  in  Europe 
as  in  the  United  States.  Even  now,  though  his  years 
are  piling  up  rapidly,  Dr.  Remondino  is  more  am- 
bitious than  ever,  for  he  has  been  devoting  all  his 
time  and  attention  during  the  past  years  to  the  most 
extensive  and  comprehensive  History  of  Medicine 
ever  attempted.  When  completed  it  will  occupy  fully 
fifty  large  volumes  and  be  the  relied-upon  encyclo- 
pedia upon  this  wide  and  many-phased  subject. 

A  novelist  of  world-repute  once  lived  for  awhile 
in  El  Cajon  Valley,  one  of  San  Diego's  suburbs.  It 
was  soon  after  she  had  written  Ships  That  Pass  in 
the  Night  that  Beatrice  Harraden  came  to  San  Diego 
in  search  of  health  and  rest.  She  wrote  two  books 
here,  one  of  which,  Two  Healthseekers  in  Southern 
California  showed  us  ourselves  as  others  see  us  so 
forcefully  that  perhaps  I  should  have  been  wise  not 
to  mention  it  in  this  connection. 

Yet  Ford  Carpenter,  the  wise  and  learned  weather 
observer,  who  lived  for  many  years  in  San  Diego, 
wrote  a  scientific  and  at  the  same  time  interesting  and 
informing  book  as  to  the  Climate  of  San  Diego, 
which  helps  to  explain  the  fact  that  San  Diego  has 
the  most  equable  climate,  winter  and  summer,  found 
on  the  American  continent  or  in  Europe. 

Nor  should  it  be  forgotten  that  William  E. 
Smythe,  one  of  the  pioneers  in  the  advocacy  of  the 
great  work  of  reclaiming  the  arid  west  by  means  of 
irrigation — the  work  to  be  done  on  a  large  scale  by 


LITERATURE  OF  SAN  DIEGO  79 

the  U.  S.  Government — made  his  home  in  San  Diego, 
and  here  prepared  the  second  edition  of  his  famous 
book,  The  Conquest  of  Arid  America,  and  wrote 
his  Constructive  Democracy,  as  well  as  his  His- 
tory of  San  Diego,  which  for  years  to  come  will  be 
the  reference  book  on  this  subject  for  all  who  wish  to 
know  the  early  history  of  the  city. 

And  in  San  Diego  to-day  reside  a  great  poet  and 
a  great  novelist.  John  Vance  Cheney,  in  whose 
honor  one  of  the  California  Authors'  Days  was  set 
apart,  has  long  made  this  his  place  of  residence,  and 
from  San  Diego  will  be  given,  undoubtedly,  that  final 
revision  of  his  poems  that  has  occupied  and  will  con- 
tinue to  occupy  his  attention  so  long  as  he  lives.  On 
Grossmont,  too,  attracted  by  the  incomparable 
charms  that  had  allured  Schumann-Heink  and  Carrie 
Jacobs  Bond  to  build  their  homes  there,  Owen  Wister 
has  built  a  home,  where  we  hope  that,  some  day,  he 
will  give  to  the  world  another  Virginian. 

Nor  can  it  be  forgotten  that  another  of  the  poets 
in  whom  the  whole  world  is  interested,  Mrs.  Rose 
Hartwick  Thorpe,  and  who  also  had  an  Author's 
Day  at  the  Exposition,  has  resided  in  San  Diego  for 
over  two  decades. 

This  sketch  makes  no  claim  to  be  a  complete  his- 
tory of  San  Diego's  men  and  women  of  literature.  I 
have  written  merely  from  memory,  with  the  aim  of 
suggesting  that  San  Diego  has  an  honored  literary 
history;  that  it  is  conducive  to  literary  and  artistic 
expression,  hence  it  was  to  be  expected  that,  when 
called  upon,  the  writers  of  the  San  Diego  of  today 
would  respond  with  quite  a  roster  of  interesting  and 
creditable  productions. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  AND 
THEIR  WORKS;  WITH  BIO- 
GRAPHICAL SKETCHES 


E  NOW  come  to  the  consideration  of  the 
special  work  of  the  writers  of  San  Diego, 
that  led  to  the  preparation  of  this  volume. 
When  the  presentation  of  their  poems  and 
other  writings  was  made  in  the  lecture  series 
on  California  Literature,  many  well-read  auditors 
expressed  their  surprise  and  high  appreciation  of  the 
general  excellence  of  the  representative  selections 
chosen  for  reading.  The  same  expressions  were  re- 
peated on  the  "Day"  set  apart  for  honoring  the  San 
Diego  writers.  In  addition,  a  large  number  of  the 
auditors  voiced  their  desire  that  the  selections  read 
be  gathered  into  book  form,  together  with  the  history 
of  the  Literature  Class,  thus  forming  a  souvenir  or 
memorial  volume  of  one  phase  of  the  educative, 
literary  and  altruistic  work  of  the  Exposition. 

The  work  of  each  writer  is  preceded,  where  it  was 
possible  to  secure  it,  with  a  brief  biographical  sketch. 
Where  reference  was  made  to  work  that  is  too  ex- 
tensive to  quote  from,  the  biographical  sketch  alone 
is  given. 

I  make  no  claim  that  all  the  verses  presented  are 
great  poetry,  though  some  of  them,  and  the  stories, 
will  bear  full  comparison  with  much  that  passes  the 
judgment  of  the  editors  and  critics.  But  I  have  not 


PATIO  AT  SOUTHEAST  CORNER  OF  SCIENCE  AND 
EDUCATION  BUILDING 


THE  ARCADE,  UNITED  STATES  BUILDING 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  81 

attempted  to  be.  too  critical.  In  judging  the  work 
of  unpretentious  writers  one  does  not  need  to  be  so 
severe  and  strict  as  when  he  scans  the  work  of  those 
who  make  literature  their  profession.  I  have  kept 
before  me,  however,  certain  standards  that  I  deem 
of  importance  in  all  work,  whether  done  by  profes- 
sional or  amateur.  These  are,  first,  the  possession 
of  the  true  urge  of  the  writer — the  something  to  say, 
either  of  beauty,  uplift,  warning,  inspiration,  or 
prophecy,  for  all  may  be  couched  in  such  form  as 
makes  true,  pure  literature ;  second,  the  possession  of 
the  true  spirit  in  that  one  feels  the  power  of  his  mes- 
sage, or  its  beauty,  whether  it  makes  any  appeal  to 
me,  personally,  or  not;  third,  that  it  be  given  in 
humility  and  thanksgiving  for  the  privilege,  rather 
than  in  vanity  for  self-glorification;  fourth,  that  it 
show  forth  conscious  endeavor  towards  perfection  in 
expression,  for  lazy,  careless,  slovenly,  or  wilfully  ig- 
norant work  should  never  be  tolerated. 

I  have  contended,  always,  that  I  could  not  afford 
to  lose  the  sight  of  one  glorious  cloud,  floating  in  the 
blue  sea  of  the  heavens,  though  clouds  are  to  be  seen 
by  the  million;  I  cannot  afford  to  miss  one  song  of 
meadow-lark,  thrush,  linnet,  sky-lark,  nightingale, 
or  mocking-bird,  though  one  may  hear  them  every 
hour  of  the  day  or  night;  I  cannot  afford  to  lose  one 
violet,  rose,  poppy  or  other  flower  that  comes  before 
my  eyes  though  there  are  countless  millions  of  them ; 
I  cannot  afford  to  lose  one  smile,  one  kind  word,  one 
beautiful  or  helpful  thought  though  I  may  be  receiv- 
ing them  every  hour  of  the  day.  Hence,  while  the 
poems  I  read,  and  that  are  here  presented,  do  not 
lay  claim  to  be  the  works  of  genius,  of  power,  or  of 


82  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

greatness,  they  are  all  worth  while,  in  that  I  believe 
them  to  be  sincere,  earnest,  humble  and  true  desires 
toward  worthy  expression  of  things  worth  thinking 
and  saying. 

H.  Austin  Adams 

One  of  the  literary  men  of  San  Diego  County  of  whom  its  citizens 
are  proud  is  H.  Austin  Adams,  colloquially  known  as  "The  Sage  of 
La  Jolla."  He  has  written  half  a  dozen  plays  (including  "The 
Landslide,"  "The  Bird  Cage,"  "The  Acid  Test,"  and  "Lobster 
Salad"),  which  have  been  produced  with  popular  success  in  San 
Diego  and  Los  Angeles. 

"God  &  Company"  was  taken  by  Marie  Tempest  and  produced 
on  Broadway  by  the  New  York  Stage  Society;  it  scored  a  triumph. 
Clayton  Hamilton,  the  eminent  critic,  wrote  of  this  play:  "If  it  had 
been  written  by  a  Russian,  or  a  Hungarian,  or  a  Pole,  it  would 
already  be  hailed  by  the  women's  clubs  as  a  work  of  genius.  No 
words  can  convey  the  sardonic  power  of  this  play.  It  is  the  sort  of 
play  that  America  has  always  been  waiting  for. 

"  'Ception  Shoals,"  Mr.  Adams'  latest  play,  was  taken  by  the 
great  actress  Nazimova  for  production  in  New  York,  where  it  has 
been  running  for  months,  a  great  success. 

"The  Bird  Cage"  was  taken  for  the  Criterion  Theatre,  Picadilly, 
London. 

Mr.  Adams  is  at  work  on  other  plays  dealing  with  certain  char- 
acteristic phases  of  American  life  of  today.  Leading  New  York 
managers  have  asked  Adams  to  furnish  plays  for  the  "stars"  under 
their  management;  and  critics  like  Clayton  Hamilton,  Augustus 
Thomas,  Adolph  Klauber,  and  others,  already  look  upon  him  as  a 
dramatist  of  commanding  power,  who  must  shortly  achieve  a  fore- 
most rank. 

Robert  H.  Asher 

A  SAN  DIEGO  MYSTERY 

(A  BALLADE) 
'Tis  New  Year's  Day  and  the  soft  winds  blow, 

The  streets  are  alive  with  merry  cheer — 
Low  overhead  in  the  sunset  glow 

White-winged  aeros  are  hovering  near. 

Where  is  the  woe  and  withering  fear, 

The  blizzard's  howl  and  the  wind's  wild  spree, 

Old  Jack  Frost  and  his  hideous  leer — 

Where  then,  Oh,  where,  may  our  Winter  be? 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  83 

Where  is  Our  Winter  of  flying  snow, 

The  emptying  cellar  of  yester-year 
When  dark  days  come  and  dark  days  go 

For  many  a  week  and  fortnight  drear? 

Vainly  I've  searched  over  mountain  and  mere, 
Down  thro'  the  valleys  and  down  to  the  sea — 

In  vain  did  I  wander  and  peek  and  peer, 

Where,  then,  Oh,  where,  may  our  Winter  be  ? 

Where  is  the  Winter  we  once  did  know ; 

The  ice-bound  gardens  barren  and  sere — 
Vanished  their  beauty,  their  pride  laid  low, 

Barren  and  empty,  forbidding,  austere  ? 

Where  is  the  mitt  and  the  close-covered  ear, 
The  double-glassed  window  and  leafless  tree, 

The  bitter  cold  and  the  quick-frozen  tear, 

Where,  then,  Oh,  where,  may  our  Winter  be? 

ENVOY 

Prince :  I've  wandered  both  far  and  near. 

The  land  is  filled  with  joy  and  glee, 
Our  Winter  has  gone — he  is  not  here — 

Where  then,  Oh,  where,  may  our  Winter  be? 

"BACK  EAST!" 

Adaline  Bailhache 

Adaline  Bailhache  was  born  in  New  York  City.  Her  childhood 
and  girlhood  were  spent  in  Illinois,  Wisconsin  and  New  Mexico 
before  coming  to  California,  where  she  has  been  living  the  past 
twenty  years  in  San  Diego  and  Coronado. 

She  was  educated  at  an  Episcopalian  church  school  in  Wisconsin 
and  at  Bethany  College,  Topeka,  Kansas. 

Her  grandfather,  John  Bailhache,  a  native  of  the  Island  of 
Jersey,  Channel  Islands,  and  her  father,  Major  William  H.  Bail- 
hache, were  editors  and  owners  of  newspapers;  and  her  maternal 
grandfather,  General  Mason  Brayman,  a  lawyer,  was  also  an 
unpretentious  writer.  A  small  volume  of  his  verse  was  published 
as  a  gift  to  his  family  and  friends. 

With  a  natural  love  of  literature,  poetry,  music  and  art,  Miss 
Bailhache  has  been  prevented  by  ill  health,  and  later  by  business 


84  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

cares  and  duties,  from  devoting  the  time  to  their  study,  which  she 
ardently  desired. 

She  was  librarian  of  the  Coronado  library  for  three  years,  and 
after  the  death  of  her  father  was  appointed  postmistress  at  Coronado 
by  President  Roosevelt,  through  the  influence  of  the  late  Colonel 
John  Hay,  then  Secretary  of  State,  and  other  old-time  Springfield, 
Illinois,  friends  of  her  father,  who  was  editor  and  proprietor  of  the 
Illinois  State  Journal  when  Abraham  Lincoln  was  made  President. 

At  the  expiration  of  her  term  of  office  Miss  Bailhache  was 
re-appointed  by  President  Taft.  Since  leaving  the  Coronado  office 
she  has  continued  in  the  postal  service  in  the  San  Diego  office.  Her 
home  is  at  Coronado,  where  she  lives  with  her  mother. 

"WHO  SHALL  SEPARATE  US?"— Romans  8:35 

To  mortal  sense  he's  gone  away, 
While  I  alone  walk,  day  by  day, 
The  path  we  were  to  tread  henceforth, 
Together. 

But  what  is  separation — Death — 
To  those  who  know,  no  mortal  breath 
Can  part  our  lives — so  closely  bound 
Together? 

For  Love  envelops  sky  and  land : 
And  those  dear  ones  who  understand, 
Know  in  this  Love  that  we  shall  be — 
Together ! 

MY  LOVES 

I  love  the  sea,  the  sky,  the  trees, 
The  radiant  sunset,  the  gentle  breeze. 

I  love  the  sand,  the  ocean's  roar, 
The  sweeping  curve  along  the  shore. 

I  love  the  ebb  and  flow  of  tide, 
I  love  the  vast  horizon  wide. 

I  love  the  shade,  the  rising  sun, 

The  dark'ning  shadow  when  day  is  done. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  85 

I  love  the  mist,  the  passing  shower, 
I  love  the  clouds  at  sunset  hour. 

I  love  the  trees  against  the  sky, 
And  the  night-wind's  mournful  sigh. 

I  love  the  stars,  the  moon's  soft  beams 
Silv'ring  the  breast  of  rippling  streams. 

I  love  the  forest's  untrodden  path, 
The  echo  of  a  wood  nymph's  laugh. 

I  love  the  desert's  vast  expanse, 
Alluring  with  its  strange  romance. 

I  love  the  mountain's  towering  height; 
I  love  the  torrent  in  its  might. 

I  love  the  canyon's  deep  retreat, 
With  its  fairy  moon-flower  sweet. 

I  love  the  wildness  of  the  storm — 
And  then  the  roseate  flush  of  morn. 

I  love  the  summer's  gorgeous  hue, 
Flaunting  flowers — sky's  deep  blue : 

And  the  emerald  blades  of  grass, 
The  clover  nodding,  as  I  pass. 

I  love  the  modest  violet, 

Hid  'neath  leaves  with  dew-drops  wet. 

I  love  the  lily-of-the-vale, 

Pure  and  sweet  in  garments  pale. 

I  love  the  rich  scent  of  the  rose, 
And  every  flower  of  God  that  blows. 


86  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

I  love  the  wind-swept  stormy  lake ; 
The  autumn  leaves — the  first  snowflake. 

I  love  the  lightning  flash,  the  rain  ; 
The  frosty  tracing  on  window  pane. 

I  love  the  calm  earth's  robe  of  white ; 
And  the  still  darkness  of  the  night. 

These,  every  one,  are  life  to  me, 
And  God  o'er-shadows  land  and  sea ! 


Daisy  M.  Barteau 


Daisy  M.  Barteau  is  a  native  of  Minnesota,  her  early  years  being 
spent  in  that  state.  She  frequently  drove  about  with  her  father, 
Rev.  Sidney  H.  Barteau,  a  home  missionary  of  the  Congregational 
Church,  in  his  work  of  preaching  to  little  groups  of  the  widely 
scattered  population  and  organizing  Sabbath  schools.  These  long 
days  in  the  open  fostered  in  her  a  deep  love  of  nature  and  a  habit 
of  reflection.  Her  father's  failing  health  caused  the  family's  removal 
to  the  South,  and  on  his  death,  in  1898,  Miss  Barteau  went  to  Chat- 
tanooga, Tenn.,  where  she  joined  the  Typographical  Union  and 
mastered  the  trade  of  linotype  operator,  which  she  has  quietly  pur- 
sued ever  since.  In  1903  she  removed  with  her  mother  to  San 
Diego,  Cal.,  where  they  have  since  resided.  She  has  been  actively 
identified  with  temperance,  equal  suffrage,  universal  peace  and 
other  movements  for  social  and  economic  betterment.  She  is  a 
Socialist  and  was  honored  by  that  party  with  the  nomination  for 
member  of  the  California  Assembly,  Seventy-ninth  District,  in  1916. 
She  is  a  member  of  various  literary  and  musical  organizations,  and 
served  on  the  Woman's  Board  of  the  Panama-California  Exposi- 
tions of  1915  and  1916.  She  has  written  verse  and  composed  music 
occasionally  from  an  impulse  toward  self-expression,  but  without 
attempt  to  make  them  public,  but  has  published  anonymously  a  few 
poems,  sketches  and  songs. 


AT  ONE  WITH  THEE 

"Freely  ye  have  received;  freely  give." 

O  wondrous  Breath,  all  Life  and  Love  expressing, 
Forth  from  the  ONE  Thou  flowest  evermore ; 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  87 

I,  too,  may  feel  the  marvel  of  Thy  blessing ; 

Mine,  too,  the  gifts  from  Thine  exhaustless  store. 

Yet  not  for  me  Thy  gift  for  miser's  hoarding — 

Still  waters  soon  in  fetid  stagnance  lie ; 
The  hand  that  grasps,  will  stiffen,  still  recording 

Th'  inexorable  law  that  all  but  Love  must  die. 

O  soul-enriching  Way  of  Love's  unfolding! 

O  happy  Law  of  Life's  mobility ! 
O  Peace,  to  plastic  rest  'neath  Wisdom's  molding, 

Slowly  becoming,  and  at  length  to  be 

A  living,  breathing  channel  for  Thy  flowing ; 

An  instrument  attuned  to  harmony; 
O  joy  of  joys!  the  inmost  being  knowing 

Its  destiny — to  be  at  one  with  Thee ! 


THE  CALL  TO  ARMS 

(A  Mother's  Exhortation  to  Her   Son,   Called  to  the   Colors   in 
War  of  Aggression) 

And  have  they  called  thee  to  the  colors — thee, 
My  son,  mine  only  son?     Was't  not  enough 
That  they,  the  overlords  of  war,  should  lure 
Him  on,  thy  father,  to  untimely  death 
Ere  yet  thou  drew'st  the  primal  breath  of  life  ; 
With  one  hand  beckoning  his  eager  youth, 
The  other  hidden  in  their  blood-bought  gold  ; 
One  hand  outstretched  in  eloquent  appeal, 
The  other  grasping  at  ill-gotten  gains 
Filched  from  the  people?    Ah,  until  that  hour 
I  lived  a  simple  girl  content  with  life 
And  love ;  then  Woe  with  thorned  and  fiery  lash 
Awoke  and  scourged  me  into  womanhood. 


88  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

My  son,  that  night  a  vision  came  to  me — 

I  saw  your  father  in  his  mortal  hour ; 

I  viewed  the  very  manner  of  his  fall  ; 

How  that  he  drew  with  him  to  th'  gates  of  death 

(For  he  was  fearless,  and  occasion  served) 

A  hundred  brothers,  husbands,  sons;  made  desolate 

A  hundred  homes,  and  doomed  to  penury 

The  prattling  child ;  brought  timid  maidens  near 

By-ways  where  hidden  Vice  lurks  dangerously; 

Filled  prison  cells  and  sent  to  early  grave 

The  grief-worn  mother;  this  your  father  did 

With  innocent  heart,  in  blind  obedience; 

A  brave  and  loyal  soul,  a  patriot 

Aflame  with  holy  zeal,  unholy  sped ; 

Through  lofty  words  and  sounding  phrases  made 

An  instrument  for  scheming  avarice. 

Today,  methinks,  I  hear  from  fiends  of  hell 

Sardonic  laughter  for  poor  humankind : 

"At  it  again,  the  fools!    The  slaughter-fest 

Is  on !    In  rows  and  regiments  the  mass 

Oppose  they  know  not  what,  they  know  not  why; 

But  trample  each  the  other ;  strive  t'  efface 

Their  self-same  image  in  their  f ellowman ! 

March,  dig,  maim,  kill,  and  never  question :    'Why, 

Why  do  I  thus  ?  Why  slay  my  brother  ?'    Nay — 

'It  is  the  order.'  " 

WHY  ?    That  pregnant  word 
Relentless,  will  not  down ;  its  letters  sear 
Mine  eyelids,  fiery  writ  athwart  the  sky. 
Mine  ears  are  deafened  by  that  question,  hurled 
In  mockery  upon  the  balmy  air 
From  shrieking  shrapnel  and  th'  insensate  roar 
Of  monster  guns,  far-flinging  shot  and  shell, 
While  sobbing  breath  of  death-struck  agony 
Gives  back  to  shudd'ring  earth  the  fateful  "WHY?" 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  89 

One  day  a  thousand  thousand  throats  shall  swell 
To  speed  that  question  on  the  wand'ring  winds  ; 
A  thousand  thousand  tongues,  articulate, 
Shall  find  an  answer  for  the  waiting  world, 
Sounding  the  knell  of  human  slavery. 
Yea,  in  that  answer  lies  the  doom  of  war — 
Herald  of  joy,  'twill  greet  the  dawning  day 
Of  regnant  justice  and  of  brotherhood; 
And  children  born  into  that  better  world 
Shall  marvel  that  these  things  could  ever  be. 

Yet  would  they  call  thee  ?    Hale  thee  from  my  side, 

A  tool  to  shape  dark  means  to  darker  ends  ? 

I  call  thee,  I,  thy  mother,  to  resist 

That  hell-born  mandate ;  stand  erect,  a  MAN, 

With  folded  arms  and  level  gaze,  defy 

Their  hireling  minions ;  bid  them  do  their  worst ; 

Oh,  teach  thy  lips  the  hero's  answer,  "NO!" 

Refuse  the  horrid  task ;  not  thine  must  be 

Or  part  or  lot  in  this  iniquity. 

Deny  to  dabble  in  a  brother's  blood 

Those  hands  that  never  yet  received  a  stain 

Save  that  of  honest  toil ;  I  counsel  thee 

Refuse,  e'en  though  refusal  in  this  hour 

Means  ignominious  death ;  yea,  I  implore 

By  love  that  first  was  thine  while  yet  thou  lay'st 

For  many  a  weary  month  beneath  my  heart  ; 

And  by  the  tedious  agony  of  birth  ; 

And  by  these  breasts  that  fed  thy  helpless  need — 

Fling  not  away  that  precious  gift  of  life 

In  hate-born  strife  and  hideous  injury. 

If  blood  must  flow,  oh,  rather  let  it  soak 

The  fertile  soil  of  freedom,  whence  shall  spring 

White  flowers  of  love  and  peace,  and  joyous  fruits 

Of  comfort-bringing  toil,  than  run  to  waste 

On  arid  sands  of  nations'  hatred. 


90  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Stay, 

Stay  but  a  moment — see'st  no  other  way 
Save  that  which  leads  through  Death's  dark  portal  out 
To  light  and  freedom  ?    Is  there  no  release  ? — 
Perchance  if  thou  obey  the  bloody  hest  — 
Follow  where'er  war's  banner  leads — perchance 
Thou  may'st  return  victorious  to  mine  arms. 

Begone,  unworthy  thought !    Hence,  cruel  spawn 
Of  coward  heart,  that  close  would  hold  its  own 
And  let  the  world  go  wailing,  comfortless. 

Oh,  why  is't  given  me  to  see  so  clear 

Those  other  mothers,  mourning  other  sons  ? 

Too  heavy  falls  the  burden  on  my  heart. 

How  can  I  wreathe  the  martyr's  crown  of  thorns 

For  thee,  beloved  ?    Must  I  hold  the  sword 

To  pierce  thy  naked  heart,  that  so  thy  blood, 

Thy  fresh,  young  blood,  forth  gushing,  shall  cry  out: 

"Make  way,  make  way  for  freedom !"  ?    Must  I  bid 

Thee  lay  thy  body  down  to  bridge  one  gap 

'Twixt  man  and  man  ? 

'Tis  finished;  he  is  gone! 
My  words  have  sent  my  darling  to  his  death 
For  brotherhood — for  justice — freedom — ah,  I  faint! 
I  die!    Comeback!    Comeback!    God!    God! 


Anna  E.  Berry  hill 

Anna  E.  Berryhill  is  a  native  of  Illinois.  She  has  been  a  resi- 
dent of  Kansas,  Missouri,  Oregon,  Idaho,  and  since  1911  has  made 
her  home  in  California.  She  was  educated  and  later  became  a 
successful  teacher  in  the  public  schools.  She  has  always  had  a 
faculty  for  writing  verses  on  timely  topics,  and  many  of  her  poems 
have  been  popular  for  recitations.  Some  of  these  are  "A  Story  of 
Christmas,"  "Rival  Melodies"  and  "The  Kansas  Volunteer."  Her 
writing  has  been  a  pleasant  pastime. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  91 

THE  GIRLS  OF  SAN  DIEGO 

They  searched  from  Maine  to  Florida, 

They  searched  from  east  to  west 
For  girls  to  bring  to  fairyland 

The  sweetest  and  the  best. 
They  were  bright  and  winsome  lassies 

And  beautiful  to  see, 
But  the  girls  of  San  Diego 

Are  the  girls  for  me. 

Beauties  came  from  crowded  cities 

Where  fashion  reigns  supreme, 
And  they  were  full  of  life  and  vim 

And  lovely  as  a  dream; 
That  one  and  all  are  peaches 

I'm  sure  we  will  agree, 
But  the  girls  of  San  Diego 

Are  the  girls  for  me. 

So  bring  your  beauties  back  again 

With  just  as  many  more; 
You  may  choose  the  loveliest  faces 

In  this  land  from  shore  to  shore ; 
They  may  vie  with  Shasta  daisies, 

And  be  just  as  fair  to  see, 
But  the  girls  of  San  Diego 

Are  the  girls  for  me. 

So  bring  your  girls  to  fairyland, 

Wherever  they  may  be, 
To  our  famous  Exposition, 

We'll  gladly  give  the  key. 
To  the  finest  girls  from  every  clime, 

We'll  all  be  there  to  see, 
But  the  girls  in  San  Diego 

Are  the  girls  for  me. 


92  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

L.  Adda  Nichols  Bigelow 

MT.  SHASTA 

Against  the  back-ground  of  the  western  sky, 
On  this  fair  summer  morn,  while  mellow  light 
Lies  peacefully  upon  its  snow-clad  brow, 
Beams  grand  Mt.  Shasta,  close  beneath  the  clouds, 
Like  some  great  thought  of  God,  to  earth  sent  down, 
To  lift  the  longing  soul  of  man  heavenward ; 
And  linking  nature  with  the  vast  unseen. 
Majestic  sentinel!  sun-bathed  and  white! 
Singing  the  silent  song  too  deep  for  words. 

We  journey  on,  and  slowly  now  recedes 
The  great  mount  from  our  view,  and  distance  sheds 
A  halo  soft  upon  the  parting  scene. 
Once  stamped  indelibly  upon  the  mind 
Thus  favored  with  the  all-transporting  view, 
We  dwell  henceforth  in  higher  altitudes. 

THE  WHITE-COVERED  WAGON 

I'm  thinking  to-day,  as  often  before, 

Of  a  childish  longing  and  dream 
To  ride  in  a  white-covered  wagon  afar, 

Through  woodland,  valley  and  stream. 

To  sleep  in  a  white-covered  wagon  at  night ; 

To  breakfast  the  roadside  along; 
Delighted  the  early  sunlight  to  greet, 

And  the  wild  birds'  jubilant  song. 

And  to  rest,  when  the  noon-tide  overtakes, 
'Neath  the  shade  of  a  spreading  tree ; 

And  quench  our  thirst  from  a  sparkling  spring, 
While  we  lunch;  a  jolly  crowd  we. 

Then  onward  again  till  the  twilight  creeps 
And  covers  the  land,  and  we  share 

Our  evening  meal,  while  the  birds  gone  to  sleep 
Leave  a  stillness  in  earth  and  air. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  93 

Thus  many  the  days  and  weeks  would  I  ride 

In  the  white-covered  wagon  quaint; 
Till  my  childish  longing  was  satisfied 

With  pictures  my  fancy  would  paint. 
*       *       * 

A  procession  of  years  has  passed  along; 

And  the  child's  dream  unfulfilled ; 
It  has  vanished  with  dreams  of  later  years 

And  the  castles  we  fain  would  build. 

Helen  Richardson  Brown 

Born  in  Woodland,  California  (eighteen  miles  from  Sacra- 
mento) ;  educated  in  public  schools  of  Woodland  and  later  at 
Calistoga,  Napa  County.  At  eighteen  she  moved  to  San  Francisco, 
where  she  became  particularly  interested  in  Chinese  life  as  viewed 
in  Chinatown  of  old  San  Francisco.  Published  first  story  in  Over- 
land Monthly  in  1901.  Soon  after  that,  a  story  of  Chinese  life  in 
the  Criterion  (New  York).  Entered  the  University  of  California 
at  Berkeley  in  1901  and  took  up  course  specializing  in  English 
literature  and  composition.  Spent  three  years  in  college,  during 
which  time  she  was  associate  editor  of  The  Occident,  the  Uni- 
versity weekly,  also  frequent  contributor  to  the  College  Monthly, 
The  California  Magazine.  During  this  period  and  the  year 
following  contributed  stories  to  the  San  Francisco  Examiner,  San 
Francisco  News  Letter,  Sunset  Magazine  and  Out  West.  Two  years 
after  leaving  college  she  took  a  position  as  private  secretary  to 
Mr.  Alfred  Holman,  editor  of  the  San  Francisco  Argonaut;  also 
acted  as  exchange  editor,  selecting  jokes,  anecdotes,  etc.,  remaining 
here  a  year.  Then  took  position  with  a  teacher  of  short-story 
writing,  reading  stories  and  giving  criticisms. 

For  about  ten  years,  up  to  the  time  she  came  to  San  Diego,  about 
five  years  ago,  she  did  but  little  literary  work.  Was  married  the 
year  after  coming  to  San  Diego,  and  has  written  for  publication 
more  or  less  since,  although,  owing  to  family  duties,  has  not  made  a 
profession  of  it.  Her  most  recent  stories  have  been  in  the  Overland 
Monthly,  Los  Angeles  Times  and  People's  Home  Journal. 

THE  MATERIALIST 

Oh,  I  can't  be  no  poet, 

Fer  I  see  things  as  they  is, 
An'  fixin'  things  up  grander 

Seems  to  be  the  poet's  biz. 

To  me  a  bird's  a  varmint, 

That  hunts  fer  worms  an'  sings ; 


94  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

The  sea's  just  green  salt  water, 
Full  o'  fish,  an'  crabs,  an'  things ; 

An'  flowers  is  only  weeds-like, 

A  little  colored  up; 
A  child  is  just  a  critter, 

Like  a  frisky,  hungry  pup ; 

An'  a  woman's  just  a  human, 
That  talks,  and  smiles  an'  lies, 

An'  maybe  makes  good  biscuit, 
An'  is  sweet-like — when  she  tries. 

An'  what  is  love  but  longin' 
Fer  these  critters  by  your  side, 

An'  doin'  yer  best  an'  workin'  hard 
To  comfort  an'  pervide? 

No,  I  can't  be  no  poet, 

An'  a-fixin'  ain't  my  biz  ; 
I  takes  a  sight  o'  comfort,  though, 

With  things  just  as  they  is. 

THE  TIE 

I  wake.    A  bird  is  singing  in  the  vine 

Beside  my  window ; 

It  is  the  same  brown  thrush 

That  built  and  sang  last  year; 

I  know,  because  in  that  same  month 

I  wove  a  wreath  and  plaited  yards  of  tulle 

To  lay  upon  my  hair, 

And  in  my  heart 

That  song  found  echo. 

But  now  no  echo  rings. 

On  yesterday  I  went  into  a  sombre,  high-ceiled  room, 

And  sat  before  a  grizzled,  kindly  judge, 

And  told  him  all  ; 

And  when  I'd  done 

He  took  his  pen  and  wrote; 

Set  down  the  words  that  made  me  free. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  95 

So  I  am  free,  yes  free  as  you, 
To  choose  another  mate  and  sing  where'er  I  will, 
And  yet,  though  lovers  hundred  came  to  woo, 
And  all  the  world  was  filled  with  lovers'  songs, 
I  could  not  mate ;  I  could  not  sing. 

THE  FOG  HORN 

The  fog  horn  calls  the  whole  night  through, 

"Oh,  Mariner,  run  slow,  run  slow! 
The  rocks  of  shore  are  cruel  sharp 

And  it  is  fathoms  deep  below!" 

My  heart  was  once  a  worthy  ship  ; 

'Twas  made  to  sail  life's  journey  through, 
But  Cupid  manned  my  precious  craft, 

And  Cupid  never  caution  knew. 

He  had  one  thought,  this  blithsome  lad, 
To  reach  the  lights  of  Harbor  Town, 

He  forged  ahead,  though  wisdom  warned, 
We  struck  the  rocks :  my  ship  went  down ! 

Oh,  mariners  upon  the  seas, 

Do  heed  the  call,  "Run  slow!  Run  slow!" 
For,  oh,  the  rocks  are  cruel  sharp, 
And  it  is  fathoms  deep  below ! 

Bessie  Lytle  Bradley 

Bessie  Lytle  Bradley  was  born  in  Mount  Vernon,  Kentucky, 
October  5,  1848,  a  descendant  of  the  family  of  Zachary  Taylor.  She 
received  her  education  in  Atchison  High  School,  Kansas;  Camden 
Point  Academy,  Missouri,  and  Farmington  Academy,  Kansas,  after 
which  she  taught  school  in  Kansas  and  Colorado.  She  began 
writing  verse  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  but  wrote  little  until  her  late 
twenties.  In  1883  she  was  married  to  Judge  W.  W.  Bradley  of 
Louisville,  Kentucky,  in  Spearfish,  South  Dakota,  where  they  lived 
many  happy  years,  amid  grand  mountain  scenery,  which  she 
describes  with  deep  appreciation  in  her  "To  the  Memory  of  a 
Friend,"  "A  Mountain  Idyl"  and  other  verses.  Her  husband  passed 
away  in  1908.  In  1913  she  came  to  San  Diego  to  be  with  a  daughter. 
She  has  written  several  poems  on  San  Diego  and  Coronado.  Among 
her  other  poems  may  be  mentioned:  "El  Camino  Real,"  "Thine," 
and  "San  Diego  de  Alcala." 


96  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

SUNSET  ON  THE  SEA 

The  sunset  leapt,  from  the  burning  sky, 
With  bated  breath,  and  lurid  glow, — 
Swept  out  o'er  the  bosom  of  the  sea, — 

O'er  the  heart  of  the  lambent  sea, — 
Above  Point  Loma  the  miracle  swept, 
Adown  to  the  ocean  waters  it  leapt, 
And  into  the  surf  where  the  salt-waters  crept, — 

Into  the  heart  of  the  sea. 

Deep  into  the  sea  its  radiance  beamed, 
Over  earth  and  sea  its  glory  streamed, 
Like  molten  gold  it  glinted  and  gleamed, 

Majestic,  terrible,  grand. 
Along  the  deep-drawn,  radiant  path, 
Absorbing,  consuming,  with  fervid  breath, 
The  latent  stretch  of  shore-line,  beneath 

Where  the  ocean-waters  wind. 

And  the  tide  swept  out,  on  the  burnished  sea, 
And  glowed  like  fire-flies  over  the  Bay, — 
The  waters,  beside  where  the  city  lay, 

Submerged  in  th'  gold-gleaming  light, 
And  into  the  heart  of  the  sunset  the  world, 
On  its  fiery  orbit  relentlessly  whirled, 
Through  cosmical  space,  seemed  gathered  and  hurled, 

Erstwhile  came  in  the  drifting  night. 


TRANSFORMATION 

Entwining  the  dead  heart  of  summer, 

And  wreathing  the  past,  like  a  dream, 
Float  visions  of  redolent  beauty, 

From  forests  that  radiantly  gleam, 
And  skirting  the  river's  bright  margin 

Slope  out  to  the  westward,  where  rise 
Green  mountains,  submerged  in  the  sunlight. 

Towering  up  to  the  blue,  rolling  skies. 


TOWER,  AND  PART  OF  SOUTH  FACADE,  SCIENCE 
AND  EDUCATION  BUILDING 


*^**A^ 


flS|!P 
/^V-&&^S 
r    <^W^k 


PERGOLA  WALK  IN  THE  MONTEZUMA  GARDENS 


CALIFORNIA  AND  ADMINISTRATION  BUILDINGS, 
FROM  ACROSS  THE  RAVINE 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  97 

But,  now  through  the  mist-shrouded  dullness 

Looms  only  the  snow-mantled  wraith 
Of  that  time,  when  the  beauty  of  summer 

Lay  rife,  'long  the  bloom-laden  path ; 
No  longer  responsively  breathing 

With  animate  heart,  as  of  yore ; 
'But,  silently  threading  the  shadows, 

Enshrouding  the  desolate  shore. 

For  winter  sits,  sullenly,  glowering, 

Defiant,  relentless,  as  fate, 
And  treads  on  the  dead  heart  of  summer ; 

While  yearn  the  quick  pulses  and  beat, 
For  the  breath  of  the  flowers — the  music, 

That  rapturously  floated  and  filled 
The  soul,  as  it  reveled,  forgetful, 

Submerged  and  entranced  and  enthralled. 

Ah,  memory  recalling  each  echo, 

Sweeps,  fondly  the  chords  of  the  past, 
Which  throb,  on  the  unbroken  silence, 

Their  rhythmical  cadence  of  rest! 


Ellen  Hosmer  Campbell 

Ellen  Hosmer  Campbell  (Mrs.  J.  P.)  was  born  in  Illinois,  and 
belongs  to  the  Alumni  of  Monticello  Seminary.  She  is  a  C.  L.  S.  C. 
graduate,  and  is  a  clubwoman  of  long  standing,  having  held  office 
in  the  Federation.  For  years  she  conducted  a  Woman's  Column 
after  an  original  plan  in  her  husband's  newspapers  in  Indiana  and 
Kansas.  Joined  the  Woman's  Press  Club  in  San  Diego  four  years 
ago,  and  is  devoting  her  spare  time  to  magazine  work,  with 
novelettes  and  serials  for  her  goal. 


THE  ONLY  PEBBLE  ON  THE  BEACH 

The  beach  was  strewn  with  shells;  some  belonged  to  the 
barnacle  family,  others  to  the  oyster,  clam,  and  even  the 
gelatinous  kelp  connection,  while  many  were  ordinary  peb- 
bles. But  all  had  their  uses  in  the  strata  of  beach  society. 


98  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

The  coquina  (for  this  was  in  proud  Southern  waters), 
which  is  very  useful  in  the  building  of  noble  structures,  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  uniting  the  various  occupants  of  the  sand, 
into  an  organization  which  would  benefit  the  community. 
So  a  meeting  was  called  of  the  different  clans.  There  were 
represented  barnacles,  oysters,  clams,  a  few  corals  off  the 
reefs,  and  numbers  of  the  more  humble  and  nameless  pebbles, 
even  seaweed  and  moss  were  eligible.  One  solitary  star  fish 
that  had  been  washed  up  by  the  waves  was  invited  to  come 
into  the  circle,  but  declined.  In  the  meantime  some  of  the 
industrious  ones  of  the  guild  kept  busily  at  work,  the  oysters 
producing  pearls,  the  clams  furnishing  nutriment,  and  the 
diminutive  mussels  were  most  helpful  in  filling  up  the  vacan- 
cies anywhere,  making  a  solid  path  for  those  who  needed  a 
sure  foundation,  and  in  many  instances  acted  as  a  filter  for 
the  pure  stream  of  thought  poured  out  from  the  fountains 
of  knowledge.  The  barnacles  stuck  at  their  posts,  usually 
foreign  appointments,  and  when  relieved  from  duty,  con- 
tributed much  information  concerning  other  coasts.  The 
coquina  piled  up  solid  walls  of  beauty,  which  brought  plaudits 
from  everyone.  By  and  by  the  fame  of  the  organization 
became  widespread. 

But  a  few  of  the  clinging  kind,  the  barnacles  and  flabby 
kelp,  feeling  the  need  of  someone  less  industrious  who  could 
radiate  from  several  points,  in  whose  reflected  glory  they 
might  shine  while  doing  nothing,  turned  longing  eyes  to  the 
magnificent  star  fish. 

"Oh,  we  must  have  her  in  our  circle  to  make  it  complete," 
they  cried.  So  the  path  builders  were  appointed  to  pave  the 
way  to  her  groove,  in  the  sands,  and  tempt  her  with  a  throne 
of  pearls  so  liberally  cast  broadside  by  the  oysters. 
Thus  filled  with  visions  of  personal  aggrandizement,  the  dis- 
play of  corrugated  charms  and  pointed  scintillations,  recently 
buried  in  the  briny  deep,  she  agreed  and  was  received  into 
the  assembly  with  much  eclat,  not  only  by  the  flabby  members 
and  parasites,  but  by  the  more  solid  ones.  But,  alas!  very 
soon  there  was  a  change  in  the  order  of  things,  the  rules 
were  disregarded,  the  new  member  being  wise  in  her  own 
conceit,  and  radiated  not  only  brilliancy  but  discontent. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  99 

"They  were  such  plodders,  and  behind  the  times."  When 
remonstrated  with  by  the  charter  members,  and  their  past 
achievements  referred  to  with  pride,  she  exclaimed: 

"What  are  your  oyster  pearls,  bivalves  and  clams  to  me, 
who  hail  from  western  waters,  where  my  associates  were  the 
beautiful  abalones,  one  of  which  would  make  a  dozen  of 
your  pearls.  Also  with  the  meat  are  so  prized  by  tourists,  and 
epicures,  that  laws  were  made  to  preserve  them  from  the 
Japanese,  and  that  and  other  causes  I  grant,  nearly  precipi- 
tated war  between  the  'powers  that  be'." 

"Aye!  Aye!"  cried  out  one  tough  old  barnacle. 

"And,"  went  on  the  haughty  insurgent,  pressing  her  advan- 
tage, "instead  of  paths  made  by  the  common  mussels,  my 
fissures  in  the  rocky  formations  there  are  paved  with  dainty 
olivels,  the  seadollars  are  strewn  everywhere,  carved  cradles, 
the  artistic  owl  vignettes,  sea  anemone  and  other  ornaments 
of  society  I  fail  to  see  in  your  pockets.  Our  clams  are  used 
for  bait  to  lure  the  giant  barracuda  from  the  depths  of  the 
kelp  beds.  Oh,  how  I  long  for  my  native  surf !" 

At  this  an  immense  turtle,  which  had  waddled  up  during 
the  discussion,  inquired:  "Have  you  no  connections  you 
can  associate  with  here?  I'm  sure  the  Stella  family  is  very 
common  in  these  waters.  I  have  seen  hordes  of  them  larger 
and  finer  than  you."  And  turning  to  the  others  so  crest- 
fallen: 

"I'm  astonished  at  you  old  scions  of  the  Southern  mollusk 
family,  that  you  let  her  out-brag  you.  You  with  your  red 
snapper  and  pompano,  bluepoints  and  littleneck  clams ;  besides 
the  barracuda  of  which  she  boasts,  is  as  the  coarse  and  com- 
mon cat  fish  found  in  fresh  waters.  The  abalone  pearl  ranks 
with  our  alligator  skin,  and  corals  in  commercial  value, 
while" 

Just  then  an  immense  wave  rolled  over  them  and  the  now 
forsaken  braggadocia  was  caught  by  one  of  her  prongs  in  a 
bit  of  undertow,  and  washed  out  of  the  audience.  The  session 
adjourned  with  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the  tortoise  for  his  defense 
of  their  pearly  depths.  And  at  the  following  meeting,  when 
harmony  was  restored,  this  member  of  the  crustacean  family 
received  the  highest  honor,  by  acclamation. 


100  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Virginia  Church 

Virginia  Church  has  made  quite  a  name  for  herself  in  the  line 
of  dramatics.  Her  first  play,  "Commencement  Days,"  was  written 
in  collaboration  with  Margaret  Mayo.  This  was  first  produced  in 
Los  Angeles,  California,  by  Morosco,  then  bought  by  Cort  and  sent 
on  the  road.  Another,  "Susan  Sayre,  Suffragette,"  was  played  in 
stock  in  the  East.  "The  Heart  Specialist,"  a  farce,  was  produced 
in  San  Diego.  Her  last  comedy,  "The  Perverseness  of  Pamela," 
received  second  prize  in  the  Craig  contest,  Boston,  and  was  chosen 
by  Harvard  University  for  its  annual  production  and  appeared  in 
the  spring  of  1916.  Mrs.  Church  collaborated  with  Mrs.  L.  L. 
Rowan  in  a  drama  dealing  with  the  history  of  Southern  California 
which  has  not  yet  appeared. 

She  has  had  produced  and  published  several  one-act  plays ;  short 
stories  in  Smart  Set,  Delineator,  Collier's  etc.  Her  one  novel, 
published  by  the  Page  Company,  of  Boston,  was  from  her  play, 
"Commencement  Days."  She  is  still  writing,  and  her  friends  have 
large  hopes  of  her  work  for  the  future. 

Nettie  Finley  Clarke 

Mrs.  Nettie  Finley  Clarke  was  born  in  the  Middle  West  during 
the  Civil  War.  After  an  early  marriage,  she  spent  the  best 
years  of  her  life  in  devoting  herself  to  her  family  and  consequent 
duties  on  a  large  farm.  Later,  poor  health  and  a  desire  to  live  in 
a  milder  climate  brought  her  to  San  Diego,  California,  where  she 
has  resided  for  five  happy  years.  Two  sons  and  two  daughters 
are  living. 

WEE  BIT  LASSIE 

Hae  ye  seen  my  leesome  lassie, 

Hae  ye  seen  my  bonnie  Jean  ? 
She  wi'  dancin'  feet  an'  airy, 

She  wha'  ha'e  the  sparklin'  een  ? 

Hae  ye  heard  the  happy  laughter, 
.    .       Seen  the  dimple  in  her  chin? 
Weel  I  ken  ye  a'  wad  lo'e  her 

An'  gie  much  those  smiles  to  win. 

Hae  ye  heard  far  bells  faint  ringin' 

I'  the  misty  early  dawn? 
Aye : — 'tis  Jeanne  wha'  is  singin' 

As  she  lightly  wanders  on. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  'I'Ol 

When  the  lav'rock  wakes  at  daylicht, 

Singin'  as  he  upwards  soars, 
Then  I  meet  her  pou'in'  gowans 

Ere  the  dew  is  aff  the  moors. 

Little  lassie,  wee  bit  lassie, 

Ye  are  sic  a  little  Queen, 
A'  the  warle  has  nae  anither, 

For  I  lo'e  ye,  brown-eyed  Jean. 

MY  FAITHER'S  HAME 

The  nicht  draws  doon  on  the  rainswept  moor, 

It's  a  lang  lang  way  I  hae  cam', 
The  hurtlin'  win's  hae  wrestled  me  sair 

An'  I'm  far  frae  my  Faither's  Hame. 

Hoosen  an'  Ian',  my  kith  an'  kin, 

Fame,  gear  an'  a'  hae  passed  me  by, 
The  snaws  o'  year,  a  life  fu'  o'  care, 

An'  the  End  of  the  Road  is  nigh. 

Mony  a  time  my  haert's  been  weary, 
Mony  a  time  my  strength  maist  gone, 

But  wi'  His  voice  an'  han'  to  guide  me, 
I  juist  keep  gaein'  on  an'  on. 

Ayont  the  gloom  and  mist  drift  I  see 

A  shinin'  licht,  an  open  door. 
My  Faither's  voice  is  ca'in'  my  name. 

"Enter,  child ;  the  journey  is  o'er." 

E.  H.  dough  (Yorick) 

One  of  the  old  school  of  California  writers,  contemporary  of 
Bierce,  McEwen,  Pixley,  Cahill  and  other  veterans  of  the  press  of 
the  Golden  State.  He  has  delighted  the  appreciative  for  many  years 
with  his  weekly  essays,  entitled  "On  the  Margin,"  in  the  San  Diego 
Union.  Here  is  one  of  many  quotable  things,  too  fine  to  be  lost. 
Two  other  quotations  from  his  pen  will  be  found  later  on. 

ON  THE  HIGHWAY  TO  THE  CITY  OF  SILENCE 

The  Parable  runneth  somewhat  after  this  wise :  First,  as 
to  the  Road.  The  queerest  highway  you  ever  heard  of,  more 


10*2  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

varied  as  to  length,  width,  grade  and  construction  than  any 
you  ever  traversed.  Some  of  it  was  smooth  and  direct ;  some 
of  it  was  rough  and  steep ;  some  of  it  was  broad  and  com- 
modious; some  of  it  was  narrow  and  tortuous.  But  the 
queerest  thing  about  the  Road  was  its  frequent  adaptability 
to  the  disposition  of  those  who  traveled  upon  it.  Many  were 
able  to  pick  out  the  smoothest  reaches,  while  others  found 
naught  but  rough  places  throughout  their  journey.  For  some 
it  was  easy  going  because  they  made  it  smoother  by  conscious 
effort  or  because  they  were  naturally  adapted  to  making  the 
best  of  bad  roads;  others  stumbled  and  halted  irresolutely 
even  in  the  broadest,  smoothest  stretches,  because  they  were 
bad  travelers,  discontented  with  any  sort  of  road  and  inclined 
to  seek  out  the  worst  places  in  the  highway.  Incredible  as 
you  may  think  it,  nobody  knew  where  the  Road  began;  but 
everybody  knew  where  it  ended  at  the  gates  of  the  Walled 
City. 

AN  ABODE  OF   BEAUTIFUL  DREAMS 

Now  as  to  the  Walled  City :  And  this  is  the  most  remark- 
able part  of  the  Parable;  more  remarkable,  even,  than  that 
part  which  tells  of  the  Pilgrims.  The  Walled  City,  like  the 
Road,  was  largely  a  thing  of  the  imagination — one  might  say 
that  it  was  an  illusion,  for  nobody  traversing  the  Road  had 
even  seen  it,  although  the  walls  of  it  were  plainly  visible 
almost  from  the  place  where  the  Pilgrims  began  their  journey. 
They  were  very  high  walls  and  completely  concealed  what- 
ever lay  behind  them — not  a  tower  or  minaret  or  pinnacle 
or  steeple  overtopped  the  walls  of  the  Walled  City ;  only  the 
infinity  of  space.  And  none  of  those  who  journeyed  to  the 
City  would  say  of  his  knowledge  that  a  city  existed  behind  the 
walls.  Yet  most  of  them  believed  in  the  City,  and  each  had 
conjured  a  Vision  of  it  after  his  own  notion  of  what  the  City 
should  be.  And  they  disputed  constantly,  and  oftentimes 
acrimoniously,  upon  their  preconception  of  what  lay  behind 
the  great  high,  impassive,  unbroken  walls. 

THE  ALL-DEVOURING  GATES 

These  walls  were  the  strangest  walls  that  ever  were 
builded.  At  the  beginning  of  the  journey  they  were  equally 
or  nearly  equally  distant  from  the  Pilgrim  setting  out;  but 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  103 

as  the  travelers  proceeded  some  of  them  came  to  the  walls  of 
the  city  more  quickly  than  the  others,  although  all  traversed 
the  Road  at  the  same  pace.  It  may  be  that  the  walls  them- 
selves came  to  meet  the  Pilgrims  in  some  instances,  for  many 
of  them  had  scarcely  begun  their  journey  before  they  dis- 
appeared through  the  gates  in  the  walls;  others  were  a  long 
time  on  the  Road.  But  finally  every  Pilgrim  came  to  the 
walls  and  passed  through  a  gate. 

DARK    POINTS    OF   DREAD 

Although  the  Pilgrims  knew  that  they  must  pass  the  gates 
to  the  City ;  that  the  City  was  their  ultimate  destination ;  and 
that  they  could  not  go  around  or  halt  under  the  walls ;  still, 
most  of  them  were  filled  with  fear  of  the  gate  while  pro- 
fessing a  sincere  longing  to  live  in  the  City,  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  none  of  them  knew  anything  about  the  City 
except  what  he  had  heard  or  hoped  or  dreamed.  And  over 
the  lintel  of  each  gate  the  Pilgrims  had  imagined  a  word  of 
dread  import — a  word  embodying  all  of  horror  and  for  some, 
of  despair.  Consequently  few  of  the  Pilgrims  wanted  to  pass 
through  their  appointed  gate,  however  firmly  they  might 
believe  in  their  illusion  concerning  the  City  beyond  the  wall. 
Some,  however,  discouraged  by  the  fatigue  of  the  Road, 
were  eager  enough,  and  hastening  onward  plunged  Headlong 
through  the  gate.  But  whoever  passed  through  the  gates 
never  returned.  And  a  vast  mystery  hung  over  the  Walled 
City — mystery  and  doubt  and  silence. 

A  RESTLESS,  CLAMOROUS  THRONG 

The  Pilgrims:  The  Road  was  thronged  with  them.  At 
the  beginning  of  each  generation  of  those  who  journey  upon 
the  Road  to  the  Walled  City  there  must  have  been  not  less 
than  a  billion  and  a  half,  but  as  the  day  of  the  journey 
advanced  the  crowd  lessened ;  by  noon  there  were  only  a 
third  of  those  who  started  in  the  morning ;  and  as  the  evening 
shadows  fell  the  number  had  dwindled  to  a  few  scattered 
groups  of  aged  men  and  women.  They  were  of  every  sort 
and  condition ;  red,  white,  black,  yellow  and  brown ;  rich  and 
poor;  high  and  low;  humble  and  haughty;  good  and  bad; 
happy  and  unhappy ;  civilized  and  barbarous ;  intellectual  and 
ignorant ;  virtuous  and  vicious ;  and  some  went  forward  sing- 


104  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

ing,  as  the  poets;  while  others  were  sorrow  laden,  as  the 
children  of  want  and  misery,  who  were  forever  falling  into 
the  ditches  or  stumbling  over  the  roughest  places;  and  some 
were  kindly,  as  those  who  reached  a  helping  hand  to  the  ditch- 
fallen  and  the  blind  ones  who  stumbled ;  and  there  were  sick 
folk  among  them  and  those  who  brought  upon  themselves  all 
their  woes,  as  the  lame  and  laggard  and  useless  made  so  by 
their  own  vices  of  indulgence ;  and  some  were  strong  and 
confident  in  their  strength  and  fit  to  linger  long  on  the  Road 
before  they  came  to  the  all-devouring  gates  of  the  Walled 
City.  And  the  great  mob  moved  forward  clamoring,  weep- 
ing, quarreling  the  one  with  the  other,  shouting  joyously, 
fighting  furiously,  pushing,  struggling,  trampling  the  one 
upon  the  other,  disputing  upon  everything  under  the  sun  and 
especially  upon  that  which  they  did  not  know  and  could  never 
know;  curious  as  to  the  material  things  that  came  in  their 
way  on  the  journey;  inquiring  as  to  the  reason  and  the  why; 
carrying  one  another's  burdens ;  robbing  one  another  of  their 
most  precious  possessions ;  preaching  gospels  of  peace  to  war- 
ring neighbors;  pushing  one  another  into  the  gates  of  the 
walls;  hating,  loving,  tyrannizing,  praising,  envying,  sacrific- 
ing, oppressing,  helping,  hindering,  each  Pilgrim  urged  by 
the  impetus  of  his  passion,  faith,  hope,  ambition,  nobility, 
avarice,  fear,  courage  and  folly. 

THE  MEANING  OF  THE  PARABLE 

And  so  they  all  come  to  the  dread  Gates  of  the  Walled 
City  and  passing  in  are  seen  no  more  on  the  hither  side  of 
the  Wall.  And  as  each  comes  to  his  own  Gate  he  shrinks 
appalled,  for  the  passage  is  cold  and  dark  and  smells  of 
human  decay;  and  no  man  knows  where  the  passage  leads. 
Many  cry  a  question  adown  the  dark  corridor,  but  not  even 
the  faintest  echo  answers;  and  the  Wall  is  as  the  wall  of 
an  eternal  tomb,  gray  and  high  and  impenetrable.  For  this  is 
the  Riddle  of  Life,  and  the  Pilgrims  are  You  and  Me  and  all 
the  People,  and  the  Road  is  the  Road  of  Destiny,  and  the 
Walled  City  is  the  Grave,  and  over  the  Gates  thereto  is 
inscribed  the  one  dread  word  Death,  which  we  have  invented 
to  mean  Hope  or  Despair  as  our  Hearts  or  our  Faith  may 
interpret. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  105 

James  Connolly 

James  Connolly  was  born  July  12,  1842,  in  Cavan,  Province  of 
Ulster,  Ireland.  He  was  educated  in  his  native  village  school.  He 
served  as  a  ship  master  for  twenty  years,  in  which  capacity  he 
circumnavigated  the  globe  many  times.  He  has  contributed  poems, 
short  stories  and  sketches  to  various  magazines.  He  is  author  of 
"Magic  of  the  Sea,"  an  historic  novel;  "The  Naval  Cockade,"  a 
drama  in  five  acts ;  "The  Jewels  of  King  Art,"  a  volume  of  verse, 
etc.  He  resides  at  Coronado.  It  is  interesting  to  note  he  was  the 
founder  and  first  editor  of  The  Tidings,  published  in  Los  Angeles. 

TO  THE  HUMMING  BIRD 

Radiant  gem  of  beauty  rare 
Flashing  through  the  morning  air! 
When  spring  aglow  with  song  and  shout, 
Flings  all  her  leafy  banners  out, 
And  buds  in  later  suns  expand 
A  blaze  of  beauty  o'er  the  land, 
From  flower  to  flower  on  restless  wing 
Spinning  to  taste  each  honey  spring, 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  every  flower, 
Embosomed  in  each  fragrant  bower. 

From  every  rose  some  rare  tint  caught 
Was  in  thy  lustrous  vesture  wrought 
With  emerald  and  carmine  hues, 
And  iridescent  evening  dews, 
And  glistening  rainbow  fragments:  spun 
From  rays  of  morning  star  and  sun, 
And  tropic  rain — and  mist,  and  light 
Of  the  warm  languorous  southern  night, 
And  crimson,  violet,  olive  gold 
In  infinite  loveliness  untold. 

How  far  the  unfathomed  sea  below 
Sparkled  the  rubies'  wondrous  glow 
Thy  slender  throat  encompassing? 
Ah  never  grandest  crown  of  king 
So  bright  a  jewel  yet  displayed — 


106  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

What  time  the  blithe  sea  fairies  played 
Thy  little  song's  accompaniment, 
On  their  strung  harps  of  gold,  that  lent 
Strange  music  to  the  monotone 
Of  the  old  sea's  eternal  moan. 

Dr.  Edward  Fayette  Eldridge 

Edward  Fayette  Eldridge  was  born  at  Ketchumville,  New  York, 
December  28,  1855.  He  was  educated  at  the  Weston  High  School, 
Weston,  Massachusetts,  and  at  the  State  Normal  School,  Cortland, 
New  York.  He  commenced  the  study  of  medicine  in  1876,  at  Boston, 
Massachusetts.  Attended  two  courses  of  medical  lectures  at  Dart- 
mouth Medical  College,  from  which  he  was  graduated,  November 
15,  1881,  vice-president  of  his  class.  He  immediately  commenced 
the  practice  of  medicine  at  Needham,  Massachusetts,  and  remained 
there  two  years ;  was  then  seven  years  at  New  London,  Wisconsin. 
In  1890  he  removed  to  Grand  Junction,  Colorado,  and  in  1914  ill 
health  brought  him  to  San  Diego,  where  he  remained  until  his  death, 
March  8,  1916.  He  was  a  writer  from  the  joy  it  gave  to  him,  and 
his  writings  had  a  wide  vogue.  In  Colorado  he  had  quite  a  reputa- 
tion as  a  novelist  as  well  as  a  poet. 

CHEER  UP 

There  ne'er  was  a  rosebud,  unarmed  with  a  thorn, 
There  ne'er  was  an  Eden,  but  sorrow  was  born ; 
There  ne'er  was  a  conquest,  without  a  hard  fight, 
And  never  a  morning,  until  after  the  night. 

There  ne'er  was  a  Savior,  until  a  great  sin, 

And  even  the  faithful,  through  trials  must  win ; 

The  rocks  on  the  desert,  a  cool  shadow  cast — 

E'en  a  wreck  on  the  beach,  may  protect  from  the  blast. 

So  don't  get  discouraged,  some  others  have  failed ! 
Not  all  reach  their  ports,  who  in  fair  weather  sailed, 
But  "rig"  up  your  "canvas,"  or  crawl  up  the  "trail" — 
You  may  yet  reach  the  summit,  or  catch  a  fair  gale. 

MY  CREED 
Back  on  the  void,  from  whence  I  came, 

There  broods  but  blackest  night  ; 
Into  the  gloom  toward  which  I  haste 

No  beacon  throws  its  light ! 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  107 

But  I  am  here  and  Time  is  mine, 

It  matters  not  how  long — 
'Tis  mine  to  cheer  some  broken  heart ; 

Replace  some  sigh,  with  song. 

The  ages  past,  Or  yet  to  come, 

To  Me  speak  Not  of  fear — 
If  I  but  do  the  best  I  can 

And  do  it  Now,  and  Here. 

THE  OVERLAND  PONY  EXPRESSf 

[This  poem  was  awarded  the  first  prize,  in  competition  with  the 
English-speaking  world,  at  the  Fourth  Grand  National  Eisteddfod, 
held  under  the  auspices  of  the  Cambrian  Association,  in  the  Great 
Mormon  Tabernacle,  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah,  the  first  week  in  October, 
1908.— EDITOR'S  NOTE.] 

The  Overland  Stage  is  fast  nearing  the  Post 
Enveloped  in  dust,  like  an  uncanny  ghost, 
It  sways  on  its  journey  through  shadow  and  light, 
For  the  fort  must  be  reached,  e'er  the  fall  of  the  night. 


•fThe  Overland  Mail,  generally  represented  by  a  Concord  coach, 
was  the  usual  means  of  conveying  the  mail  and  express  pouches 
from  the  terminal  of  the  railroad,  in  some  middle  western  city,  to 
an  outpost,  which  was  either  a  permanent  fort  or  a  stockade  at  the 
end  of  the  wagon  road.  From  these  outposts,  which  'were  the  rendez- 
vous of  scouts,  prospectors  and  frontiersmen,  there  extended  across 
the  plains  and  through  mountain  passes,  single  paths,  or  trails,  over 
which  the  Overland  Pony  Express  riders,  once  a  week,  dashed  across 
the  country,  each  relay  making  about  one  hundred  miles,  depending 
somewhat  upon  the  location  of  water  for  the  stations,  the  keepers 
of  which,  isolated  as  they  were,  and  continually  exposed  to  hostile 
attacks,  were  about  as  reckless  as  the  riders  themselves ;  but  as  there 
were  several  of  them  at  a  station  it  was  not  quite  so  lonesome  or 
dangerous. 

The  hardships  and  dangers  which  beset  the  riders  were  enough  to 
discourage  all  but  the  most  vigorous  and  daring,  as  many  times  they 
were  compelled  to  leave  the  regular  trails  on  account  of  rock  slides, 
torrents  or  forest  fires,  as  well  as  the  Indians,  who  seemed  well- 
nigh  omnipresent.  These  intrepid  riders  generally  reached  their 
destination  with  wonderful  promptness.  If  one  of  them  failed  to 
report  at  his  station  within  a  reasonable  time,  it  was  known  that 
he  had  either  become  lost,  helplessly  disabled,  or  had  died  in  the 
discharge  of  his  duty. 


108  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

On  the  edge  of  the  desert  which  stretches  away 

To'ard  the  sun,  now  descending,  like  wolves  held  at  bay 

The  treacherous  Redskins  are  lying  in  wait 

For  the  unguarded  victim  who  leaves  its  barred  gate. 

Beside  the  wild  bronco  he  scarce  can  restrain 
The  lone  rider  waits  with  his  hand  on  the  rein 
'Till  the  pouch  from  the  boot  of  the  Concord  is  passed 
To  his  cantle  behind,  where  the  thongs  make  it  fast. 
Then  springing  astride  with  a  hearty  "So  long" 
His  spurs  find  the  "fur,"  and  the  onlooking  throng 
Are  gazing  in  wonder  along  the  dim  trail, 
While  clouds  of  red  dust  their  nostrils  assail. 

The  gates  of  the  Fortress  are  closed  and  made  fast 
As  the  flag  flutters  down  from  the  top  of  the  mast, 
And  shades  of  the  evening  exclude  from  the  sight 
The  dauntless  young  rider,  who  fades  in  the  night. 
As  on  to'ard  the  summit  he  hastens  along 
He  hums  to  himself  a  favorite  song, 
And  dreams  of  his  Sweetheart  with  laughing  blue  eyes, 
Who  waits  for  his  coming,  beneath  southern  skies. 

Aware  of  the  danger  from  merciless  foes 
Swift  on  through  the  night,  he  unceasingly  goes, 
His  cayuse  ne'er  slacking  its  renegade  pace, 
While  a  smile,  like  a  baby's,  creeps  over  his  face 
As  he  thinks  of  the  blessings  he  carries  along 
To  some  lad,  from  his  mother,  or  childish  love  song 
That  will  gladden  the  heart  of  her  miner  at  rest 
In  the  bunk  of  his  cabin,  somewhere  in  the  west. 

His  speed  is  now  slackened  and  up  to  the  shed 
His  dripping  wet  mustang  is  carefully  led, 
Where  he  is  assisted  by  rough,  willing  hands, 
For  it  is  with  effort  he  painfully  stands. 
He  drains  a  deep  "schooner,"  while  horses  are  changed, 
By  those  who  from  safety  are  gladly  estranged, 
But  who,  seeming  heartless,  are  tender  as  girls 
To  the  dare-devil  rider  with  long  streaming  curls. 
Again  he  is  off ;  straight  into  the  night, 
Soon  leaving  behind  the  welcome  and  light, 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  109 

Along  the  unguarded  and  dangerous  trail, 
With  treasures  of  gold,  and  Uncle  Sam's  mail ; 
Maintaining  a  pace  that  none  could  endure 
Except  the  wild  mustang,  whose  footing  is  sure, 
And  who,  with  his  rider,  though  oft  in  distress, 
Is  seldom  behind  with  the  Pony  Express. 

One-half  of  his  journey,  at  least  fifty  miles, 
Is  now  left  behind  amid  the  dark  wilds, 
And  hope  is  beginning  to  sing  in  his  ear — 
When  out  of  the  darkness  fierce  Warriors  appear. 
His  spurs  are  thrust  deep  in  the  cayuse's  sides, 
For  the  race  is  to  him  who  most  fearlessly  rides 
Regardless  of  trail,  or,  in  fact,  lack  of  one, 
And  who  can  the  quickest  unlimber  his  gun. 

On  through  their  midst  like  a  fierce  hurricane, 

He  rushes  along  toward  the  alkali  plain — 

To  pitch  from  his  saddle,  his  horse  falling  dead 

From  wounds  which  have  sprinkled  his  leggins  with  red. 

Unharmed  by  their  arrows,  though  still  they  pursue, 

He  shelters  himself,  and  with  aim  swift  and  true, 

Assisted  by  morn,  as  it  breaks  o'er  the  hills, 

"Pumps  lead"  from  his  Spencer,  which  generally  kills. 

Repulsed  by  the  slaughter,  they  hardly  can  hide, 
The  marauders  withdraw  and  reluctantly  ride 
Away  o'er  the  foothills,  and  leave  him  alone, 
The  loss  of  his  "partner"  to  sadly  bemoan. 
The  curse  of  the  desert — the  demon  of  thirst, 
Is  parching  his  throat,  but  what  he  heeds  first 
Is  the  fact  that  the  landscape  is  new  to  his  sight — 
That  the  trail  has  been  lost  in  the  hot  running  fight. 
His  eyes  search  the  landscape  for  cottonwood  trees, 
For  water  must  seep  from  the  ground  under  these, 
But  not  a  leaf  trembles  to  gladden  his  sight, 
Or  lessen  the  terror  of  his  awful  plight. 
Half  dead  from  exhaustion,  and  dazed  by  the  fall, 
He  at  first  tries  to  walk,  but  finds  he  must  crawl ; 
To  leave  the  mail  pouches  ne'er  enters  his  head, 
For  he  vows  they  must  move  until  he  is  dead. 


110  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

To  stay  where  he  is  means  horrible  death ; 

So,  dragging  his  load,  with  a  prayer  on  his  breath, 

He  starts  for  the  foothills,  determined  to  find 

At  least  a  moist  spot,  or  if  Nature  be  kind, 

A  hole  in  the  rock,  which  was  filled  by  the  rains 

When  winter  swept  over  these  now  burning  plains ; 

Though  often  polluted  by  savage  and  beast, 

To  him  it  seems  nectar  and  fit  for  a  priest. 

Scarce  thinking  of  aught  but  the  terrible  thirst, 

He  staggers  along  'till  on  his  sight  burst 

Two  warriors,  well  mounted,  but  still  unaware 

That  the  cause  of  their  search  is  awaiting  them  there, 

Who  drink  from  a  "skin"  as  they  pass  it  around, 

Which  was  filled  from  a  spring  bubbling  up  from  the  ground 

Far  back  in  the  hills  where  the  giant  pines  grow, 

And  hide  from  the  south  winds  their  treasures  of  snow. 

Not  heeding  the  hazard  of  two  against  one 
He  draws  from  his  holster  his  trusty  old  gun, 
But  his  movements  attract  his  now  startled  foes, 
Who  reach  for  their  rifles  instead  of  their  bows, 
And  bullets  are  whizzing,  like  bees  through  the  air, 
In  a  contest  that  leans  toward  the  bloodthirsty  pair, 
But  when  it  is  finished  two  "Injuns"  lie  prone 
And  the  rider's  left  arm  shows  a  bad  splintered  bone. 

Disregarding  the  fracture  he  climbs  up  the  hill 

And  from  the  skin  bottle  he  drinks  at  his  will, 

Then  he  loosens  the  horses  and  soon  has  his  pack 

Again  moving  west,  on  the  cayuse's  back. 

The  trail  he  had  lost  is  now  under  his  feet, 

But  the  air  seems  aflame  with  the  glimmering  heat, 

While  the  pain  from  the  wound,  streaming  up  to  his  head, 

Fills  his  soul  with  despair  and  sickening  dread. 

It  is  not  for  himself  that  he  trembles  with  fear, 
But  the  pouch  might  be  lost  if  no  one  is  near 
To  urge  on  the  ponies,  or  at  least  hold  them  back 
From  the  Indian  camp,  as  they'll  double  their  track. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  111 

To  prevent  such  a  sequel,  he  ties  them  in  haste 
To  the  belt  of  his  gun,  which  encircles  his  waist, 
And  summoning  all  of  his  fast  ebbing  strength, 
Determines  to  ride  to  his  uttermost  length. 

With  incessant  efforts  and  unbending  will, 
He  lashes  his  mounts  o'er  arroyo  and  hill, 
Until  from  exhaustion  he  falls  to  the  ground, 
To  catch  from  the  earth  a  most  welcome  sound — 
The  rhythmic  cadence  of  iron-shod  feet 
Which  tell,  by  their  measure,  a  tale  that  is  sweet — • 
That  scouts  from  the  station,  because  he  is  late, 
Are  coming  to  rescue,  or  learn  of  his  fate. 

Scarce  able  to  answer  the  questions  they  ask 
Until  he  has  drunk  from  a  dusty  old  flask, 
Which  revives  him  enough  to  partly  explain 
The  uneven  conflict  he  had  on  the  plain — 
The  loss  of  his  cayuse,  the  wound  of  his  arm, 
Which  he  quickly  explains  had  caused  no  alarm, 
Until  the  fierce  fever  excited  his  brain 
And  he  feared  going  mad,  from  the  terrible  strain. 

Then  his  mind  wanders  off  in  a  feverish  dream 

And  he  kneels  in  the  dust,  as  if  by  a  stream, 

Attempting  to  drink,  from  a  fancied  clear  pool, 

And  talks  of  the  water,  so  sparkling  and  cool — 

Of  losing  the  pouches,  they  gave  to  his  care — 

Of  the  blessings  and  songs,  and  the  mother's  last  prayer, 

Then  begging  the  troopers  to  "send  on  the  mail," 

He  sinks  in  a  swoon,  by  the  side  of  the  trail. 

ENVOI 

In  worshiping  heroes  the  world  often  fails 

To  remember  the  deeds  on  the  overland  trails — 

And  the  men  who,  resigning  their  sweethearts  and  wives, 

Were  ever  the  foremost  to  hazard  their  lives 

In  efforts  to  hasten,  between  east  and  west 

A  message  of  love  from  some  yearning  breast; 

N'er  thinking  of  honor  or  worldly  estate 

They  died  for  mankind,  and  MUST  live  with  the  great. 


112  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Samuel  London  Ely 

Samuel  London  Ely  was  born  near  Leadville,  Missouri,  November 
18,  1871.  As  a  boy  he  had  but  three  months'  schooling,  though  later 
he  was  able  to  attend  Ellsworth  College,  at  Iowa  Falls,  for  one 
term.  He  has  been  a  cowboy  and  a  prospector,  and  thus  became 
familiar  with  the  desert  of  the  Great  West.  He  has  not  always 
had  the  desire  for  literary  expression,  but  two  or  three  years  ago 
the  urge  took  possession  of  him. 

In  my  comment  upon  his  work  I  showed  that  his  lack  of  the 
necessary  education  prevented  his  expressing  himself  in  correct  and 
choice  English,  but  as  there  were  so  many  beautiful  and  poetic 
thoughts  enshrined  in  his  efforts,  I  urged  him  to  study  and  continue 
his  literary  endeavors.  The  following  is  but  one  of  many  of  the 
unpolished  gems  his  verses  contain. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  DESERT 

The  lines  describe  the  Spirit  of  the  Desert  as  a 
beautiful,  yet  healthy  and  vigorous  young  woman, 
calling  attention  to  her  plans  for  the  reclamation 
of  the  desert,  which  speedily  transforms  the  useless 
waste  into  fertile  fields,  exquisite  gardens,  in  which 
are  beautiful  homes.  Vast  crowds  assembled  to  hear 
and  learn.  Her  assistants  were  singing  and  dancing 
girls.  The  stage  was  set  low,  mountains  painted  on 
the  horizon  and  the  wings,  in  the  tones  commonly 
found  on  the  unreclaimed  desert.  Music  and  danc- 
ing, expressive  of  the  true  rhythm  of  harmony  of  all 
of  God's  creation  opened  the  scene.  Then  the  chief 
figure  appeared,  and  here  is  Mr.  Ely's  description 
of  her: 

Then  the  spirit  of  the  desert  appeared  upon  the  scene, 

With  beautiful  flowers  in  either  hand ; 

She  bowed  and  smiled,  and  waved  her  flowers  so  fresh  and  green ; 

In  her  right  hand  she  held  the  rose,  and  violet  blue. 

In  her  left  hand  she  held  the  water-lily,  the  fern,  and  cress, 

All  bright  and  fresh  with  the  morning  dew. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  113 

She  then  addressed  herself  to  individual  members 
of  the  assembled  throng  and  pledged  that,  if  they 
would  work  in  harmony  with  her,  oases  would  spring 
up  on  every  hand;  springs  would  appear. 

Then,  says  Mr.  Ely,  "she  produced  petals,  and 
pollen,  and  mixed  them  with  the  sand."  Here  is  pure 
poetry,  and  imagination  that  calls  upon  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  reader  as  to  the  consequence  of  such  mix- 
ing, when  water  and  sunlight  also  abound. 

At  the  same  time  the  people,  ensnared  with  her 
vision,  "cleared  a  place  for  the  temple  of  love  and 
hope  to  stand,"  while  she  declared  the  joy  and  beauty 
of  the  doctrine  of  Universal  Brotherhood. 

Then  with  the  petals,  and  pollen,  and  sand, 
We  built  beautiful  homes  along  the  shore, 
Just  alike  for  the  rich  and  the  poor. 

Then  the  Desert  Maiden  brought  the  new  colors 
and  beauty  into  the  desert : 

Out  of  her  garments  she  dusted  each  fold, 
Rubies,  sapphires,  garnets  and  gold. 

Then  one  asked  her  where  fragrance  for  the  rose 
could  be  obtained,  and  the  blue  for  the  bluebell,  etc. 
While  he  questioned  "a  ray  of  light  filtered  down 
from  heaven  in  a  crystal  drop  of  dew,"  and  she  re- 
plied: 

I  am  the  Spirit  of  the  Desert; 

I  am  the  fragrance  of  the  rose ; 

From  me  the  bluebell  gets  its  blue; 

I  am  the  crystals  in  the  sand ; 

I  am  the  pollen  and  the  petals, 

Of  the  lilies  in  the  sand ; 

I  am  the  lustre  in  the  light-rays ; 

I  am  the  liquid  of  the  dew, 

That  make  the  colors  bright  and  new. 


114  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Maude  Ervay  Fagin 

Maude  Ervay  Fagin  was  born  in  Dallas,  Texas.  When  quite  a 
child  the  family  moved  to  Colorado  Springs.  She  graduated  from 
Wolfe  Hall,  Denver,  Girls'  Branch  of  St.  John's  College,  of 
the  Episcopal  Diocese  of  Colorado.  In  El  Paso,  Texas,  she  was 
Chairman  of  the  Letters  and  Art  Department  of  the  El  Paso 
Woman's  Club,  wrote  book  reviews  for  one  of  the  El  Paso  news- 
papers, and  was  one  of  the  officers  of  the  Civic  Improvement  League. 
After  traveling  in  Mexico  and  Canada,  she  came  to  San  Diego  in 
1906,  where  she  became  the  organizing  Regent  of  the  San  Diego 
Chapter  of  the  Daughters  of  the  American  Revolution,  and  one  of 
the  organizers,  and  first  treasurer,  of  the  San  Diego  Woman's  Press 
Club,  of  which  she  is  now  president.  In  1911  she  went  on  a  Medi- 
terranean cruise,  and  two  years  later  travelled  in  China  and  Japan. 


AT  LAST  I  KNOW  LIFE 

I  once  was  twenty, 

But  I  did  not  know  life. 

I  was  filled  with  beautiful  ideals, 

I  did  not  know  life. 

I  met  Adventure, 

He  was  clothed  in  gold  and  the  aureole  of  dawn  was  about 

him. 

He  touched  my  hand : 
I  thrilled! 

He  leaned  to  touch  my  lips, 

With  the  kiss  I  saw  the  skull's  grin  through  the  radiance. 
I  shuddered  back  and  all  was  emptiness. 
I  questioned  life. 

I  met  Love. 

He  was  a  flame  of  light  and  the  warmth  of  the  morning  sun 

was  about  him. 
He  folded  me  in  his  glance : 
I  was  enraptured ! 

He  held  me  close  and  blinded  me  with  his  glory. 
I  was  translated,  empowered,  magnified ! 
I  adored  life. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  115 

I  opened  my  eyes. 

Love's  glance  wandered,  his  look  was  empty. 

I  clutched  him  to  me — he  pushed  away. 

I  looked  again  and  saw  that  Love  was  gone. 

I  fell  inert,  all  was  black ! 

I  hated  life. 

I  met  a  Comrade. 

He  looked  into  my  eyes  and  read  my  soul : 

He  saw  the  disillusionment,  the  heartache. 

Understanding  he  lay  his  arm  across  my  shoulder, 

And  so,  walking,  I  was  content. 

I  accepted  life. 

I  met  Death. 

Gray,  sinister,  unyielding,  he  took  my  Comrade. 

My  very  soul  rebelled ! 

But,  as  I  lifted  my  voice  to  protest, 

Death  looked  back, 

And  in  his  eyes,  dull,  fateful,  gleamed  a  promise. 

At  last,  I  know  life. 

WHERE  GOD  WALKS 

A  wide,  shallow  saucer  of  bleached  sand;  over  it  a  bowl — 
gray,  like  dulled  silver.  The  plain  is  marked  by  gaunt, 
rigid  cactus  and  scattered  groups  of  olive-gray  bush. 

There  is  no  sound,  no  color. 

There  are  great  reaches,  but  no  distance:  everything  seems 
equally  near,  equally  far,  even  to  the  edge,  where  the 
bowl  and  saucer  touch  rigid  lips  in  a  frozen  kiss. 

There  are  no  perspectives,  for  there  are  no  shadows. 
It  is  the  heart  of  infinitude. 

Slowly  the  colorless  air  turns  violet,  faint  at  first,  then  deep- 
ening; then  it  fades  into  rose.  The  bowl  is  no  longer 
gray ;  it  has  turned  a  delicate,  apple-leaf  green. 


116  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

The  silence  grows  deeper ;  life  itself  seems  not  to  be. 

On  the  eastern  rim  a  pale  primrose  light  appears — a  ghost  of 
light.    It  spreads  upward,  onward. 

A  murmur  runs  through  the  air;  the  hush  is  broken.     It  is 
the  silences  whispering. 

A  gleaming  band  of  ribbon  stretches  half  round  the  rim. 
The  shadows  come,  running  fast  to  meet  the  day. 

From  afar  comes  the  shrill  call  of  the  cicada;  a  lizard  scur- 
ries across  the  sand. 

Up  leaps  the  sun ! 
It  is  the  desert. 

Caroline  Katherine  Franklin 

Mrs.  Franklin  is  a  native  of  San  Diego,  being  the  eldest  daughter 
of  Doctor  and  Mrs.  P.  C.  Remondino.  In  1897  she  was  married  to 
Berte  V.  Franklin.  She  comes  naturally  by  her  desire  to  write,  her 
father  being  one  of  the  well-known  literary  men  of  California. 

About  three  years  ago,  Burke  W.  Jenkins,  an  ex-editor  of  the 
Frank  A.  Munsey  staff,  became  a  patient  of  Dr.  Franklin,  and 
during  the  friendship  which  ensued  the  doctor  told  Mr.  Jenkins 
that  Mrs.  Franklin  had  written  some  short  stories.  Mr.  Jenkins 
voluteered  to  criticize  the  stories  and  he  gave  Mrs.  Franklin  such 
encouragement  that  she  decided  to  follow  her  original  impulse, 
which  was  to  write  a  novel  about  the  hero  of  the  sketches  which 
Mr.  Jenkins  had  criticized.  This  novel,  "Smiley,"  is  the  story  of 
an  orphan  whose  mother,  through  shock,  has  been  deprived  of  her 
memory.  It  tells  of  the  boy's  struggles,  his  optimism,  and  is  full 
of  his  philosophy  of  life. 

Her  next  novel  is  "The  Cup  of  Human  Kindness."  Of  it  Miss 
Elizabeth  Squier,  one  of  the  foremost  Eastern  critics,  says: 

"This  is  the  story  of  a  very  quaint  and  entertaining  child,  much 
on  the  order  of  'Rebecca  of  Sunnybrook  Farm'  yet  quite  a  fresh  and 
different  type  of  character,  whose  conversations  with  her  doll  tell 
the  greater  part  of  the  narrative.  It  is  a  story  for  grown-up  people 
who  have  not  lost  entirely  their  faith  in  human  nature  and  who 
will  want  their  children  to  read  it  for  the  lesson  it  entertainingly 
teaches.  More  worldly  people  will  read  it  with  a  new  realization 
of  'the  power  which  a  simple  belief  in  the  goodness  of  others  gives." 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  117 

Frederick  W.  Lawrence,  one  of  the  Hearst  editors,  also  writes: 
"I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  this  sweet  and  wholesome  story  of 
an  unusual  child  who  grows  to  be  a  very  unusual  young  woman, 
will  appeal  to  the  heart  of  the  American  people  just  as  it  has  ap- 
pealed to  my  own  heart.  I  am  what  people  call  'sophisticated,'  but 
I  am  not  so  much  sophisticated  that  a  little  lump  did  not  come  into 
my  throat  and  remain  there  during  the  time  I  was  reading  this 
story." 

Mrs.  Franklin  has  completed  other  novels,  "Just  You"  and 
"Morning  Star,"  and  is  at  work  upon  others.  The  scenes  of  most 
of  her  work  are  laid  in  Southern  California,  which  will  add  to 
their  interest  among  Californians.  Mrs.  Franklin  is  a  member  of 
the  Woman's  Press  Club,  and  also  of  the  San  Diego  Poetry  Club. 

The  following  is  the  fourth  chapter  of  "Just  You" : 

The  day  had  been  one  of  oppressive  heat — one  of  those 
fortunately  rare  days  when  the  wind  blows  dry  and  hot  from 
the  desert  beyond  the  eastern  mountains,  and  when  the  full 
moon  arose  the  sky  was  cloudless,  while  the  wind,  now 
cooler,  abated  somewhat,  though  still  dry  and  parching. 

The  curtains  fluttered  fitfully  in  the  otherwise  quiet  room, 
and  the  ring  of  light  the  shaded  lamp  cast  upon  the  table  by 
which  Jane  Ashton  sat  made  a  picture  hard  for  her  husband 
ever  to  forget. 

A  spasm  of  anguish  flashed  over  his  troubled  face.  She 
looked  up  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  her.  An  uncomfortable 
silence  followed  as  both  tried  to  master  their  feelings.  The 
man  it  was  who  first  spoke : 

"Come,  dear,  come,"  said  Newton  Ashton  chokingly  as  he 
held  out  his  wife's  wrap  and  looked  down  at  her  tenderly 
while  she  placed  the  little  leather  shoes  back  in  the  basket 
and  covered  them  up  with  a  dainty  silk  coverlet. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  beautiful  eyes — eyes  that  for 
years  had  only  known  love  and  laughter — filled  with  tears. 
Then  she  arose  and  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  shook 
convulsively  as  she  sobbed  again  her  heart-sorrow  at  the  loss 
of  their  only  child — their  little  daughter  who  had  just  learned 
to  lisp  in  baby  language. 

"Night  and  loneliness  are  forever  companions,"  he  said 
huskily  as  they  stepped  out  into  the  night. 

He  tried  his  best  to  soothe  and  comfort  her  as  they  walked 
toward  the  park  they  both  loved.  Gradually  her  sobbing 


118  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

ceased;  she  became  quiet,  and  when  they  reached  a  secluded 
spot  where  the  shadows  hid  them  from  the  curious  passers-by, 
she  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Not  noticing  that  there  was  another  occupant,  a  shabbily- 
clad  woman,  sitting  at  the  further  end  of  the  long  bench,  he 
drew  his  wife  gently  to  the  seat  and  said  tenderly : 

"Let  us  rest  here  for  a  little  while,  Jane.  You  are  tired 
and  here  we  can  talk  things  over  quietly." 

The  shabbily-clad  woman  at  the  far  end  of  the  bench 
apparently  was  too  engrossed  in  her  own  sorrows  to  more 
than  notice  the  new  comers,  for  she  unconsciously  muttered 
to  herself : 

"Why  am  I  alone?" 

Then  she  gave  a  quick  start  and  listened  eagerly  as  she 
heard  the  familiar  name  of  "Jane"  from  the  man  at  the 
other  end  of  the  bench — her  name  and  the  name  of  her  baby 
girl. 

"Jane,"  the  man  said  lovingly,  as  he  drew  his  wife's  head 
down  on  his  shoulder  and  held  her  close,  "we  must  make  up 
our  minds  not  to  go  through  this  nerve-racking,  heart-break- 
ing scene  every  evening.  It  will  kill  us.  God  has  sent  us  this 
trial  for  some  good  reason."  His  voice  broke.  "Try  and 
be  a  little  woman  and  bear  your  sorrow,  our  sorrow."  Then 
he  kissed  the  tear-stained  cheek  again  and  again. 

"Yes,  darling,  I  know,"  she  answered,  her  slim  fingers  rest- 
ing on  his  arm,  "but  we  had  planned  and  planned :  loved  and 
wanted  her  so,  so  much.  Think,  Newton,"  she  continued, 
"how  many  people  have  children  and  are  allowed  to  keep 
them.  People  who  really  cannot  afford  to  take  care  of  them." 

A  shiver  ran  through  the  ragged  figure  who  now  rubbed 
the  palms  of  her  hands  together  nervously  as  she  listened  in- 
tently from  her  unnoted  vantage  point  at  the  far  end  of  the 
bench,  and  then,  as  the  couple  arose  and  walked  slowly  away, 
she  too  left  her  secluded  corner  and  cautiously  followed — 
followed  them  all  the  way  to  their  destination  and  heard  the 
woman  say  in  tender,  pleading  tones  like  a  child: 

"I  cannot  go  in  yet,  not  yet.  I  just  cannot.  I  want  to 
stay  out  in  the  night  air  until  I  feel  sleepy.  Just.  Just  a 
little  while  longer." 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  119 

"All  right,  Jane,"  he  replied.  "We'll  walk  for  a  little 
longer,  but  you  know  I  must  be  down  town  very  early  in 
the  morning." 

She  seemed  to  rouse  herself.  "I  know,  dear,  but  I  cannot 
bear  to  go  home,  so  please,  please  let  us  walk  for  a  little 
while." 

They  walked  on  down  the  street  while  the  woman  in  rags 
hurried  past  them  and  when  she  turned  the  corner  of  the 
block  she  broke  into  a  run  and  did  not  stop  until  she  had 
reached  her  room  in  the  attic  of  a  tenement. 

Her  face  grew  a  sickly  white,  her  teeth  chattered  and  her 
hand  trembled  as  she  lighted  the  solitary  candle  in  her  pov- 
erty-stricken room.  Then  she  went  to  the  cot  in  the  far  cor- 
ner and  picked  up  a  baby — her  baby  girl,  hardly  four  weeks 
old.  The  little  one  gave  a  feeble  cry  and  as  the  woman 
cuddled  the  baby  carefully  in  the  triangle  made  by  her 
mother-arm,  it  sank  back  into  a  restless  sleep.  Then,  kiss- 
ing her  baby  tenderly,  very  tenderly,  the  weary  little  woman 
whispered  as  she  rested  for  a  moment  in  the  rickety  rocker, 
her  eyes  caressing  the  little  being  through  her  wet  lashes: 

"Mother  is  going  to  give  you  to  someone  who  will  be 
kind,  very  kind  to  you  and  will  love  you,  love  you,  love  you 
nearly  as  much  as  I  love  you,"  and  then  her  voice  which  had 
become  hoarse,  broke  into  a  sob  and  her  tears,  falling  on  the 
pale,  upturned  face  of  the  sleeping  infant,  awoke  the  child 
and  it  began  to  cry  in  a  feeble,  pitiful  whimper.  Then  the 
mother-heart  seemed  to  break. 

"It  is  best!  It  is  best!  I  know  it  is  best!  I  will!  I 
must!"  She  groaned  as  she  crossed  the  room  and  laid  the 
child  down.  Then  she  went  over  to  the  old  dresser,  opened 
the  top  drawer ;  searched  through  its  contents  and  took  out  a 
piece  of  paper  and  a  stub  of  a  lead  pencil  and  hastily  wrote  a 
note,  a  very  short  note.  Picking  the  child  up  carefully,  she 
wrapped  the  infant  in  a  piece  of  old  cotton  blanket,  fastening 
the  note  with  a  pin.  She  hugged  her  treasure  tight  to  her 
breast,  passed  out  of  the  room  into  the  hall,  down  the  steep, 
narrow  stairs  and  out  into  the  night. 

With  the  noises  of  a  great  city  falling  about  her  like  the 
roar  of  the  sea,  she  hastened,  unmindful  of  everything  save 


120  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

the  plan  she  had  made,  and  it  was  with  a  quick,  short  sigh 
of  relief  that  she  saw  the  couple  walking  towards  the  far  end 
of  the  block.  She  stole  up  their  front  steps  and  lovingly  de- 
posited her  burden — her  all — her  baby  girl — at  their  front 
door  and  then,  glancing  furtively  about,  she  crept  down  into 
the  shadows  and  hid  where  she  might  watch  the  doorway 
and  their  return. 

As  Newton  and  Jane  Ashton  passed  their  home  they  heard 
a  cry — a  baby  cry.  She  stopped  him  with  a  little  shuddering 
moan  and  a  tug  at  his  arm  and  asked  hysterically,  her  eyes 
staring : 

"Newton,  do  you  hear  that?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  he  replied,  the  grim  line  about  his  lips  twist- 
ing a  little. 

"Well,"  she  continued  nervously,  her  words  tumbling  over 
one  another,  "that  is  what  I  hear  all  of  the  time  when  I  am 
alone  and  you  tell  me  it  is  my  nerves,  and  now,  you  admit 
that  you  also  hear  it."  She  clung  to  her  husband,  trembling 
in  every  muscle  and  he  tried  to  soothe  her  as  they  slowly  con- 
tinued their  walk  while  the  other  little  mother  crouched 
down  in  misery. 

But  the  crying  grew  louder  and  the  wife's  nerves  seemed 
to  snap — snap  like  the  strings  of  a  highly  tuned  violin.  She 
suddenly  broke  loose  from  her  husband  and  ran  towards  the 
house.  The  cry  grew  louder  as  she  drew  near.  The  woman 
in  rags  crossed  the  street  and  stood  in  the  shadow  of  a  large 
tree  and  eagerly  watched. 

"Newton,"  shrieked  Jane  Ashton,  "come  quick!  Come 
quick!"  She  lifted  the  baby  very  tenderly  but  held  it  tightly 
while  her  husband  fumblingly  unlocked  the  door  and  as  they 
entered  the  house  Jane  Ashton  unfastened  the  tattered 
blanket  and  held  the  tiny  being  even  closer  with  a  hungry 
grasp,  while  a  white  face  with  a  pair  of  burning  eyes  peered 
from  the  shadows  and  saw  the  man  take  the  note  and  read  it 
and  then  hand  it  to  his  wife. 

The  door  closed.  A  light  gleamed  in  an  upper  room  and 
the  watcher  saw  the  woman  fold  the  little  tattered  cotton 
blanket,  pin  the  note  back  upon  it  and  then  cross  over  to 
the  window  and  pull  down  the  shades. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  121 

Frank  Arthur  French 

THE  FLUME- WALKER 

In  California,  where  water  is  often  brought  in  wooden  flumes 
over  long  distances,  the  "flume  walker"  is  necessary  in  order  that 
he  may  detect  and  repair  breakages,  which  might  cause  great 
damage,  as  well  as  the  loss  of  the  necessary  water. 

He  walks  with  God  who  walks  the  flume 

In  clouds  dream-weft, 

Along  the  narrow  path  his  feet  have  worn 

By  day  above  the  tallest  eucalyptus  plumes, — 

At  night  along  the  canyon's  rugged  breasts. 

A  carpet  of  the  coolest  moss  for  him  is  laid 

Of  maidenhair  and  violets  pale  shade-drawn 

To  drench  their  petals  in  the  drip  and  gloom 

Beneath  the  rotting  beams  and  hutments  of  his  bridge. 

Serene  he  walks  beside  the  flume 

Nor  dreams  of  these  nor  sees  all  this. 

His  gaze  is  lifted  far  beyond  the  mesa's  rim. 

Beyond  the  vineyards  heavy  in  fruit  he  sees 

Brown  hills  grown  browner  in  the  autumn  noons, 

Baked  by  the  heat  of  tropic  suns, 

Slaked  by  no  kindly  hand. 

His  soul  leaps  out  beyond  the  valley's  dip  and  rise 

To  one  interstice  in  the  mist-veiled  peaks 

Where  walls  of  stone  hold  back  the  flood  emprise. 

He  knows  he  guards  the  source  of  life  held  there 

Beyond  the  distant  hills,  beyond  the  purple  bloom — 

And  in  his  heart  a  thousand  birds  give  song. 

Wing  shod  he  walks  with  God  who  walks  the  flume ! 

THE  WIRELESS  BUILDER 

He  did  his  part 

Who  took  no  thought  of  self, 

But  mounting  fearless  in  the  swaying  winds 

Stood  steadfast  at  his  task's  behest 

Welding  with  bolts  of  steel  boom  upon  boom 

To  build  vast  towers  of  speech 


122  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

To  conquer  Space, 

To  shout  the  Vanquishment  of  Kings, 

To  herald  New  Democracies. 

This  was  his  Dream. 

Who  called?    'Twas  Death! 

He  heard,  and  answering  fell  to  earth 

A  broken,  formless  thing. 

Out  on  the  vibrant  waves  of  ether 
A  cry  of  clear,  far  triumph  rang! 
Beyond  the  little  spheres  of  destiny 
His  Soul  had  soared,  and  soaring 
Turned  to  laugh 
At  what  was  once 

A  MAN! 


SPRINGTIME  ON  THE  SOMME 

The  battlefield  was  torn  and  scarred 
From  bursting  mine  and  sunken  pit. 
A  flying  column  swept  across 
And  left  in  ashes,  gas  and  flame 
All  that  was  once  a  shouting  throng 
Of  bravery  and  youth  and  song.     .     . 

Charred  stumps  of  poplars  sentineled  the  hills. 
Long,  writhing  lanes  splotched  deep  with  red 
Veined  the  wild  labyrinths  of  the  dead: 
And  birds  which  came  to  build  again 
Found  only  hollows  in  strange  form 
Strewn  bleached  and  grinning  on  the  ground. 

One  there  had  been  who  always  yearned 

To  send  his  message  out  in  song. 

His  only  cry  the  world  had  heard 

Was  "On!   Take  the  trench!    On!   On!!" 

Heedless  he  led  the  charge,  and  then — 

A  broken  sword  was  all  of  him. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  123 

Out  of  a  skull  that  lay  secure 

Within  the  shelter  of  a  twisted  mound 

A  bird  with  flaming  throat  and  golden  wing 

Brought  warbling  her  full  brood. 

And  now  the  battlefield  is  filled  with  song 

Triumphant  song  of  him  who  yearned  to  sing ! 

THE  CORRAL 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  the  impatient  herd 

Pressed  close  against  the  bars  of  their  corral 

Nosing  and  nudging,  each  to  each,  lest  one  should  soonest 

Burst  his  prison  gate  and  joyously  stampede 

Across  the  shimmering  miles  of  verdure  just  beyond. 

So  bent  were  they  on  freedom  that  they  never  knew 
Beneath  their  eager,  restless  feet  grew  herbage 
Sweeter  than  the  undulating  green  of  hills 
Thick  grown  with  stinging  thistles,  cruel  cactus  thorn, 
For  they  were  safely  guarded  by  confines  they  abhorred. 

But  bands  of  hungry  ponies  grazing  on  the  distant  range, 
Gazed  longingly  upon  the  well-fed  herd  imprisoned  in  the 
pound ! 


George  Fuller 

Judge  George  Fuller,  now  of  Los  Angeles,  but  a  resident  of  San 
Diego  for  nearly  thirty  years,  coming  there  from  New  York  City 
in  1886,  is  a  lawyer  by  profession,  filling  a  place  on  the  bench  of 
the  Superior  Court  of  San  Diego  County  by  appointment  by  the 
Governor  in  the  year  1900,  and  practicing  his  profession  before  and 
after  this  in  San  Diego  and  Los  Angeles.  Judge  Fuller  has  never 
been  engaged  in  literary  pursuits,  nor  has  he  written  any  other  verse 
than  these  sonnets,  for  publication,  but  his  forceful  and  elegant 
prose  writings  in  law  and  public  affairs  now  and  then  give  some 
suggestion  that  there  lurk  within  his  nature  poetic  thought  and 
fancy;  and  it  was  no  surprise  to  his  friends  that  these  sonnets  on 
the  theme  of  Southern  California  should  appear  from  his  pen. 


124  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

INTRODUCTORY  COMMENT,  BY  YORICK 
[The  following  comment  is  such  a  lucid  and  clear  explanation  of 
the  sonnet  form  of  verse,  and  is  also  so  fine  an  example  of  the  work 
of  Yorick,  in  his  "On  the  Margin"  page  in  the  San  Diego  Union, 
that  I  am  glad  to  give  it  place  here. — EDITOR.] 

POETS  WHOSE  SONG  IS  FOURTEEN   LINES   LONG 

The  sonnet  is  an  exceedingly  difficult  verse  form. 
I  know  because  I  have  tried  it —  and  failed.  Yet  the 
rules  for  making  a  sonnet  are  very  simple — but  they 
are  as  inflexible  as  any  that  govern  the  most  exact- 
ing and  intricate  game  of  solitaire.  If  you  don't  be- 
lieve me  try  your  own  hand  at  the  construction  of  a 
pure  or  Italian  sonnet.  Here's  the  formula ;  Four- 
teen iambic  pentameters;  fourteen  five-accent  lines  of 
ten  syllables  each;  divided  metrically  into  two  parts, 
the  first  or  octave — or  octet — of  eight  lines,  riming 
a-b-b-a-d'b-b-a,  the  remaining  six  lines,  the  sextet, 
riming  in  any  fashion  on  either  two  or  three  ter- 
minals, as,  c-d-c-d-c-d,  or  c-d-e-e-d-c.  Your  octave 
must  end  with  a  period  and  must  contain  the 
statement  or  description  from  which  the  sextet 
draws  the  conclusion  or  reflection.  This  logical 
arrangement  may  be  violated  as  it  was  violated  by 
Milton  and  Wordsworth,  who  sometimes  confine  the 
conclusion  to  the  two  or  three  closing  lines,  or  even 
let  the  reader  draw  his  own  conclusion.  This  is  not 
the  pure  Italian  form,  however,  and  invariably  the 
best  effect  is  obtained  when  the  logical  divisions  cor- 
respond nearly  to  the  metrical  divisions. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  A  SONNET 

Or  you  might  try  the  irregular  or  Shakespearean 
sonnet  of  three  alternately  riming  quatrains  and  a 
closing  couplet,  with  this  sort  of  rime  scheme :  abab, 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  125 

cdcd,  efef,  gg.  Try  it  on  the  subject  with  which  you 
are  most  familiar,  and  see  if  you  can  produce  some- 
thing like  this  one,  "On  the  Life  and  Death  of  Sar- 
danapalus,"  by  young  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Sur- 
rey, who  with  Sir  Thomas  Watt  introduced  the  son- 
net form  into  English  verse  early  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury: 

The  Assyrian  in  peace,  with  foul  desire 

And  filthy  lusts  that  stained  his  regal  heart, 
In  war,  that  should  set  princely  hearts  on  fire, 

Did  yield,  vanquisht  for  want  of  martial  art. 
The  dint  of  swords  from  kisses  seemed  strange, 

And  harder  than  his  lady's  side  his  targe, 
From  gluttons'  feasts  to  soldiers'  fare  a  change, 

His  helmet,  far  above  a  garland's  charge ; 
Who  scarce  the  name  of  manhood  did  retain, 

Drenched  in  sloth  and  womanish  delight, 
Feeble  of  spirit,  impatient  of  pain, 

When  he  had  lost  his  honor  and  his  right — 
Proud  time  of  wealth,  in  storms  appalled  with  dread, 
Murdered  himself  to  show  some  manful  deed. 

Poor  Surrey!  fatal  sonnet!  if  the  legend  be  true, 
that  Henry  VIII  on  his  deathbed  resenting  the  per- 
sonal allusion  to  himself  which  malicious  courtiers, 
seeking  the  downfall  of  the  Howards,  father  and  son, 
as  they  had  compassed  the  tragedy  of  Catherine  of 
that  ilk,  signed  the  warrant  that  sent  the  noblest 
youth  in  England  to  the  Tower  Hill,  and  the  heads- 
man. But,  constructively  a  traitor,  because  he  had 
approved  the  ambition  of  his  father,  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk,  to  mount  the  throne  of  the  Tudors,  and 
bore  the  arms  of  Edward  the  Confessor  with  his  own 
in  silent  claim  of  the  heirship  of  his  house  to  the 
sceptre,  it  seems  doubtful  that  a  mere  sonnet,  even  if 


126  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

not  in  the  best  form  and  substance,  could  have  in- 
censed a  monarch,  even  though  "drenched  in  sloth 
and  womanish  delight,"  to  such  extremity.  Neither 
is  the  political  inference  sufficiently  pointed  to  merit 
a  special  dispensation  of  Henry's  wrath.  It  would 
seem  that  the  Howards  of  that  and  the  succeeding 
generation  were  given  to  the  habit  of  treason ;  for  the 
history  tells  us  that  Elizabeth,  daughter  and  suc- 
cessor of  Henry,  had  to  send  Thomas  Howard, 
fourth  Duke  of  Norfolk  and  son  of  Surrey,  to  the 
block  for  conspiring  to  achieve  that  same  Howard- 
coveted  throne  by  a  marriage  with  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots.  Sonneteering  was  only  a  diversion  with  the 
Howards ;  but  treason  was,  evidently,  their  vocation. 

DESPAIR  AND  DEFIANCE 

Here  is  one  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti's  sonnets 
that  might  have  been  written  yesterday  from  the  in- 
spiration of  the  Nation's  wrath  and  hate,  engender- 
ing in  the  poet's  heart  a  Grief  to  weep  in  the  lap  of 
Despair: 

Not  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  my  God! 

Not  that  the  seasons  totter  in  their  walk — 

Not  that  the  virulent  ill  of  act  and  talk 
Seethes  ever  as  a  wine  press  ever  trod — 
Not  therefore  are  we  certain  that  the  rod 

Weighs  in  thine  hand  to  smite  thy  world ;  though  now 

Beneath  thine  hand  so  many  nations  bow, 
So  many  kings;  not  therefore,  O  my  God! 

But  because  Man  is  parceled  out  in  men 

To-day ;  because  for  any  wrongful  blow 

No  man  not  stricken  asks,  "I  would  be  told 
Why  thou  dost  this ;"  but  his  heart  whispers  then, 

"He  is  he,  I  am  I."    By  this  we  know 

That  our  earth  falls  asunder,  being  old. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  127 

How  different  Henley's  outcry  in  Vae  Victis : 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 

I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud, 
Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 

My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll ; 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate ; 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 

This  is  the  creed  of  modern  individualism  inter- 
preted by  two  poets — the  one  is  despondent  abnega- 
tion, the  other  is  defiant  despair.  And  neither  be- 
lieves in  the  possibility  of  a  brotherhood  that  shall 
furl  the  battle  flags  in  the  federation  of  the  world 
or  still  the  thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting. 

IN  PRAISE  OF  SAN  DIEGO 

Perhaps  you  question  why  I  have  chosen  this  sub- 
ject for  such  a  lengthy  discourse.  Well,  aside  from 
the  self-interest  of  the  theme,  I  am  constrained  to 
dwell  on  it  because  Judge  George  Fuller  of  San 
Diego  has  written  a  most  excellent  little  poem  in  this 
mode  in  praise  of  the  perennial  beauty  of  the  environ- 
ment within  which  he  lives.  It  is  somewhat  "irregu- 
lar" as  to  the  rule  of  rime,  but  its  pentameters  march 
with  stately  stride  to  the  melodious  phrasing  of  the 
flowering  thought;  and  if  the  sextet  is  not  wholly 
given  over  to  the  "conclusion  or  reflection"  the  sonnet 
loses  nothing  of  the  fullness  of  its  meaning  or  the 
completeness  of  its  intention.  Here  is  Judge  Fuller's 
sonnet  on — 


128  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

SAN  DIEGO 

An  azure  arch,  with  irised  bordure  set ; 

A  blazing  sun,  whose  conq'ring  beams,  far  flung 

O'er  mountain,  mesa,  vale  and  shore,  tho'  hung 

With  purple  mists,  whose  changing  shadows  fret 

The  distant  hills,  a  golden  sheen  spread  yet 

From  Cuyamaca's  peak  to  Loma's  wall; 

A  sun  that  beautifies  and  brightens  all, — 

And  kissing  warm  the  sea-wind  blithe,  swift  met 

As  eager  o'er  the  strand  she  leaps,  his  call 

Confessed,  soft  airs  ambrosial  breeds,  that  youth 

Protract  and  lusty  age  prolong,  while  all 

That  breathe  their  zephyrs  sweet,  and  list  their  sooth 

Aeolian  song,  all  other  lands  forget, 

Or,  seeing  them  no  more,  feel  no  regret. 

CONCENTRATED  POESY 

The  octave  of  a  sonnet  is  an  intaglio ;  the  sextet  is 
a  cameo.  The  sonnet  itself  may  be  likened  to  the 
picture  of  a  beautiful  landscape  reflected  in  a  drop 
of  dew  on  a  rose  leaf.  The  writing  of  a  sonnet  is  the 
intellectual  exercise  of  a  poet  in  which  he  subor- 
dinates his  emotion  to  his  sense  of  proportion  and 
symmetry,  measuring  his  fancy  to  fit  the  restricted 
tapestry  of  his  imagination.  There  are  not  a  dozen 
perfect  sonnets  in  literature;  although  there  are  a 
score  that  are  more  beautifully  poetical  in  their  ir- 
regularity than  those  that  were  fashioned  for  the 
matrices  of  Petrarch  and  Heredia.  And  I  believe 
that  San  Diego  may  feel  proud  of  her  reflection  in 
the  mirror  of  Judge  Fuller's  sonnet.  I  am  sure  that 
she  may  be  honestly  flattered  by  the  sincerity  of  the 
poet's  praise. 

Two  other  Southern  California  descriptive  son- 
nets by  Judge  Fuller,  follow : 


MEMORIAL  TO  FRAY  JUNIPERO  SERRA,  FOUNDER  OF  THE 
FRANCISCAN  MISSIONS  OF  CALIFORNIA 


FOREIGN  AND  DOMESTIC  BUILDING,  THE  CHAPEL  FRONT 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  129 

HOTEL  DEL  CORONADO 

Between  two  waters  blue,  thou  sit'st  in  state, 

With  smiling  orient  face,  and  wings  like  hands 

That  seem  to  say  "we  welcome  your  commands," — 

The  one  inviting  towards  the  Dresden  plate, 

The  other  beck'ning  where  the  dancers  wait; 

While  round  on  every  side,  the  traveler's  glance 

Such  panorama  views  as  ne'er  romance 

Portrayed,  nor  all  earth's  beauteous  climes  can  mate; 

O'er  sea  he  looks  where  namesake  islands  stand ; 

O'er  crescent  bay  a  range  his  vision  bounds, 

With  serrate  summit.      Dropping  towards  the  strand 

His  gaze,  where  San  Diego's  hum  resounds, 

He  marks  the  nautic  flags  of  every  land, 

Then  sees  the  birdmen  rise  o'er  polo  grounds. 

LOS  ANGELES 

A  valley  rich  with  orange,  nut  and  vine; 

A  tranquil  sea,  with  sail-inviting  shore; 

A  mountain  wall  that  lifts  its  summit  hoar 

Above  a  forest  green  of  oak  and  pine, 

And  zigzag  trails  that  scale  its  bold  incline; 

A  checkered  sweep  of  velvet  lawn,  that  fills 

A  rim  of  gently  undulating  hills, 

Where  umbrose  palm  and  mantling  rose  entwine. 

Mid  these,  a  modern  city's  towers  rise, — 

Tall  hostelries,  and  taller  haunts  of  trade; 

A  city  full  of  men  of  great  emprise; 

Streets  animate  with  fashion,  and  parade 

Of  deft  machine;  a  city  smart  that  vies 

With  countryside,  the  two  in  pomp  arrayed. 

James  R.  Gage 

A  NIGHT  WF  BURNS 

Come  brithers,  let  us  a'  be  there, 
The  twenty-fifth  of  Januar, 
To  lilt  a  song  or  wail  a  prayer : 
An'  drop  a  tear  for  Robin. 


130  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Ah,  Robin  "dear  departed  shade," 
Though  thou  hast  lang  been  lowly  laid, 
Till  thine  beside,  our  bed  is  made ; 
We'll  smile  and  sing  of  Robin. 

Ye  cam  to's  when  the  year  was  young, 
Ye  brought  to  ilka  month  a  tongue, 
To  every  tune  by  season  sung 
A  song  was  set  by  Robin. 

Na  cheil  was  left  of  those  who  dwal, 
In  lowly  hut  or  lairdly  hall, 
Na  hour  was  there  amang  the  twal 
But  had  a  blink  fra  Robin. 

The  mousie  o'  the  stibble  field, 
The  daisy  o'  the  random  bield, 
Puir  Mailie  standing  in  her  shield, 
A'  wish  and  wait  for  Robin. 

The  hum  that  floats  fra  hawthorn  dells, 
The  anthem  ocean  grandly  swells, 
The  chimes  that  ring  on  heather  bells, 
Are  resonant  o'  Robin. 

The  lintwhite  singing  fra  her  tree, 
The  paitrich  whirring  wild  and  free, 
The  cushat  doo  upon  the  lea, 

Ca'  "Robin,  Robin,  Robin!" 

The  cotter  by  his  ingle  side, 
Leal  Davoc  wi'  his  bonnie  bride, 
O'Shanter  on  his  midnight  ride, 
A'  bleeze  at  name  o'  Robin. 

In  mirth,  in  grief,  didst  thou  rejoice, 
Thy  song  burst  forth  beyond  thy  choice, 
Of  Nature's  heart  thou  wert  the  voice, 
All  sing  and  weep  through  Robin. 

Where  thou  art  gone  let  ithers  tell, 
But  while  in  human  hearts  ye  dwell, 
I  wad  believe  it  for  mysel, 

Gude  will  be  guid  to  Robin. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  131 

THE  WOLF'S  APPEAL  TO  DUGALD  CAMPBELL* 

Ah  Dugald,  I  am  sad  to  hear 

That  'gainst  the  wolves  their  lives  you  swear, 

And  handle  much  wanchancie  gear 

To  work  their  ruin: 
And  right  and  left  you  hourly  speir 

For  their  undoin'. 


*In  the  late  '70's  there  came  from  the  Highlands  of  Scotland  a 
family  of  Campbells,  one  of  which,  a  son,  was  the  Dugald  herein 
addressed.  They  settled  upon  the  banks  of  the  Missouri  river  in 
Emmons  county,  of  the  then  Territory  of  Dakota.  The  county  itself 
constituted  a  domain  approaching  in  size  the  Scotland  they  had 
just  left.  Being  shepherds  and  the  sons  of  shepherds,  it  was  natural 
that  they  should  resume  their  former  occupation  in  a  land  that 
promised  such  bountiful  returns.  Great  oceans  of  grass,  lush  and 
nutritious,  lay  spread  out  for  miles  on  every  side.  The  climate  was 
healthful,  the  sun  shone,  the  flowers  bloomed  in  profusion,  the  birds 
sang  and  all  looked  like  a  new  Canaan  to  the  delighted  Scotchmen. 
They  established  two  ranches,  putting  several  thousands  of  sheep 
on  each.  The  first  results  were  most  satisfactory,  the  ewes  bleated, 
the  lambs  gamboled  and  capered,  the  flowers  bloomed,  the  birds 
sang,  and  it  looked  as  though  nothing  could  ever  becloud  so  fair 
a  scene. 

But,  alas,  the  chemist  has  not  yet  appeared  who  is  capable  of 
compounding  a  high-grade  ointment  without  the  aid  of  the  fly.  So 
is  chanced  in  this  case.  Perhaps  Flora's  wonderful  profusion  blinded 
Dugald  to  the  fact  Fauna  had  ever  had  existence  there.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  the  fact  remains  that  when  suddenly  from  some  unknown 
source  the  wolf  appeared,  the  surprise  was  only  equalled  by  the 
indignation  of  the  Campbell  contingent.  The  wolf  did  not  act 
discreetly;  he  emphasized  his  offense  by  showing  the  utter  contempt 
in  which  he  held  sheep.  His  conduct  implied  that  he  regarded  them 
as-  childish  and  simple,  fit  for  nothing  unless  it  might  be  for  use  in 
lessening  the  high  cost  of  living.  Dugald  was  thrown  into  a  tower- 
ing rage,  and  his  proceedings  indicated  that  he  proposed  to  show 
Mr.  Wolf  that  "the  Campbells  were  coming,"  and  coming  mighty 
fast.  He  called  indignation  meetings,  he  induced  the  county 
authorities  to  make  appropriations  for  the  purchase  of  various 
poisons,  he  inspected  all  sorts  of  traps  and  snares  for  capture,  he 
established  an  entente  with  every  man  in  the  country  who  had  sheep, 


132  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

But  laddie,  ere  you  work  your  will 
Ilk  mither  wolf  and  whelp  to  kill, 
And  pack  them  aff  for  good  or  ill 

To  purgatory; 
Just  lend  a  lug  and  hold  you  still 

To  hear  a  story. 

Lang  syne,  when  ye  were  'yont  the  Tweed, 

Nor  ever  entered  it  your  heid 

To  hither  come  your  flocks  to  feed — 

All  questions  scorning — 
This  land  was  mine  and  my  blest  breed 

From  Time's  first  morning. 

If  ancient  family  trees  be  ta'en, 
Ere  rose  a  shaft  on  Shinar's  plain 
My  blood  is  of  primeval  strain 

With  lineage  clear; 
I  am  an  older  man  than  Cain; 

By  maist  a  year. 

Great  nations,  I've  seen  rise  and  sink, 
And  topple  o'er  Oblivion's  brink ; 
To  leave  in  History's  chain  no  link 

To  fix  their  name; 
Na  star  in  all  the  heavens  to  blink 
Their  pride  or  shame. 

he  appointed  Wolf  Days  much  as  the  Exposition  gentlemen  appoint 
Authors'  Days,  though  not  precisely  for  the  same  purpose.  In  short 
it  looked  as  though  things  were  conspiring  to  give  Brer  Wolf  what 
slangy  folk  might  call  a  run  for  his  money.  The  wolf  had  no 
money  to  fool  away,  at  running  or  otherwise.  In  the  emergency  he 
did  what  I  regard  as  both  a  wise  and  a  bold  thing.  He  sought  for 
the  head  of  the  aggressors,  and  when  he  found  it  to  be  Dug  aid 
Campbell,  like  an  honest  man  he  made  no  attempt  at  evasion,  no 
long-winded  diplomatic  comings  and  goings,  but  in  flat-footed  terms 
he  defined  his  status  and  put  it  up  to  Dugald  to  digest  it.  Was  his 
claim  just,  and  was  his  request  unreasonable? 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  133 

Yet,  safe  through  wreck  of  these  I've  steered, 
While  mony  a  bonnie  sheep  I've  sheared  ; 
By  quaking  shepherds  I've  been  feared 

As  Nature's  watchman; 
Why  should  I  then  be  called  misleared 

By  drouthy  Scotchman  ? 

Na,  na,  my  trusty  fier,  I  ken 
Your  will  is  good  like  ither  men 
To  take  my  precious  life,  but  then 

I'm  not  sifugled ; 
I  still  need  sheep  from  out  your  pen, 

My  raucle  Dugald. 

Sae  let  us  kindly  deal  wi'  ither, 
(I  love  ye  like  a  very  brither) 
Then  do  not  fly  into  a  swither 

At  my  request, 
But  send  me  out  a  plump,  fat  wether, 

And  ye'll  be  blest. 

Think  ye  if  I  were  you,  my  lad, 
And  ye  were  roaming  weak  and  sad, 
While  famishing  wi'  hunger  mad 

Amang  your  pals; 
I'd  hedge  in  ilka  sheep  I  had 

Wi'  curst  corrals? 

Na,  na,  I'm  free  and  proud  to  own 
My  heart's  not  made  of  sic  whinstone ; 
No  sooner  would  I  hear  ye  groan, 

While  filled  I  am, 
Than  quickly  to  your  side  I'm  flown 

To  bring  a  lamb. 

Just  treat  me  thus  and  it  will  lend 
A  luster  to  the  life  ye'll  spend  ; 
Our  shameful  warfare  it  will  end, 

And  bridge  the  gulf, 
Enabling  me  to  write,  Your  Friend, 

Immortal  Wolf. 


134  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Bertha  Lowry  Gwynne 

Mrs.  Thomas  Gwynne  has  made  writing  short  stories  and  poems 
her  forte  for  some  years.  She  has  published  in  Everybody's, 
Country  Life  in  America,  The  Smart  Set  and  many  other  maga- 
zines, and  is  a  regular  contributor  of  humorous  and  satirical  articles 
to  Life. 

THE  TAIL  OF  TRUSTY  JAKE 

They  call  me  Old  Veracity 

I  hail  from  Ballarat; 
I've  follered  all  the  minin'  booms 

From  Nome  to  Rawhide  Flat. 

'Twas  on  the  trail  to  Tonopah 

I  first  met  Trusty  Jake, 
Pinned  underneath  a  slide  o'  rock 

Lay  that  pore  rattlesnake. 

And  when  I  extricated  him 

With  joy  I  thought  he'd  bust; 
You  never  see  a  critter  show 

Sich  gratitude  and  trust. 

Jake  follered  me  on  all  my  trips 

Prospectin',  fur  and  near; 
And  talk  of  brains!   That  reptyle  skinned 

A  minin'  engineer ! 

He  p'inted  out  the  richest  leads — 

We  cashed  fur  quite  a  sum. 
And  when  I  hit  fur  Ballarat 

Why,  Trusty  Jake  he  come. 

We  staid  in  town  fur  most  a  week 

A-takin'  in  the  sights; 
We  bucked  the  wheel  at  Faro  Pete's, 

And  pulled  off  seven  fights. 

I  'bout  decided  then  to  go, 

We'd  still  a  hefty  roll. 
I  knowed  that  if  we  tarried  there 

It  would  be  blew  or  stole. 

Well,  shore  enough,  that  very  night — 
The  clock  was  strikin'  one — 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  135 

I  waked  and  seen  two  burglars  bold, 

And  each  one  had  a  gun! 
I  lay  thar  jist  plumb  paralysed 

Till  I  gits  a  wink  from  Jake ; 
(I  knowed  no  pizen  bunch  o'  thieves 

Could  circumvent  that  snake.) 

AND  THEN 

A  noise  come  from  the  winder  sill 
That  made  them  burglars  stop. 
Jake's  faithful  tail  was  hangin'  out 
A-rattlin'  fur  a  cop ! 

Minnie  Johnson  Hardy 

Minnie  Johnson  Hardy,  wife  of  the  late  Robert  Craig  Hardy, 
was  born  in  the  small  country  village  of  Ceresco,  in  the  great  corn 
belt  of  Eastern  Nebraska.  Her  father,  William  H.  Johnson,  came 
from  England.  He  was  a  musician,  scholar  and  philosopher. 

Mrs.  Hardy,  like  her  father  and  husband,  is  a  great  lover  of 
music  and  literature,  but  says,  as  did  Marcus  Antonius,  she  "has 
neither  wit  nor  words,  nor  worth,  action  nor  utterance,  nor  the 
power  of  speech."  But  she  has  learned  to  love  and  enjoy  God's 
great  open  country  west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  so  that  she  can, 
from  her  own  experience,  appreciate  "California,  Romantic  and 
Beautiful,"  and  "Arizona,  the  Wonderland  of  the  West." 

Mrs.  Hardy  regrets  that  she  does  not  have  a  coat  of  arms,  as  she 
would  like  to  have  engraved  upon  it  these  words,  "The  World  is 
my  Country  and  to  do  good  is  my  Religion." 

SAN  DIEGO  AND  THE  EXPOSITION  AS  SEEN 
FROM  THE  TOWER  AT  SUNSET 
Oh,  august  place,  Oh,  fairyland! 
Of  beauty  rare,  and  splendour  grand. 
What  pageantry  of  fragrant  bloom, 
From  Nature's  own  mysterious  loom 
The  laboring  elements  have  wrought, 
And  now  enshrined  within  our  hearts. 
And  memory  dear  will  ever  be 
This  Paradise  beside  the  sea. 
The  plumy  pepper  greets  the  breeze 
Which  sways  the  eucalyptus  trees. 
Their  nodding  branches  gaily  meet, 
And  rustling-murmur  music  sweet, 


136  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Like  chords  divine,  while  feathered  throats 
Join  in  the  song.    Their  golden  notes 
Echo  the  praises  which  we  know 
Are  doubly  due  thee,  San  Diego. 

These  lovely  flowers  of  rainbow  hue, 
These  brilliant  lights  like  sparkling  dew, 
These  Spanish  towers,  this  fern-strewn  glen ; 
Alas !   Too  grand  for  mortal  pen. 
Here  have  the  Muses  delved  and  sowed, 
Here  kindly  Fortune  has  bestowed 
Her  richest  gifts  from  Plenty's  hand, 
On  San  Diego's  blossom  land. 

The  Spaniards  dreamed  in  days  of  old, 
Of  earth's  great  treasure,  shining  gold; 
But  small  in  knowledge,  poor  in  faith, 
In  vain  they  searched  in  every  place ; 
But  hope  and  work  with  one  accord, 
Must  ever  reap  a  just  reward. 
And  now  is  seen  'neath  leaves  of  green, 
The  gold  of  which  the  Spaniards  dreamed. 

Now  as  the  sun  sinks  in  the  West, 
A  blissful  messenger  of  rest 
Comes  to  me,  as  through  a  mist 
Of  happy  tears,  the  world  seems  kissed 
By  Angels'  feet.    A  crimson  light 
Floods  earth  and  sky,  and  in  delight 
My  heart  beats  fast,  my  soul  soars  free 
In  tune  with  God's  own  harmony. 

Oh,  friends  who  come  from  far  and  near, 

A  song  of  praise  to  Pioneer 

I  would  propose.    With  courage  blessed 

He  labored  long,  and  with  success 

His  task  is  crowned,  the  richest  gem 

In  fair  Columbia's  diadem. 

Our  thanks  to  those  who  built  the  Fair 

And  now  invite  you,  everywhere 

And  countless  thousands  yet  to  be — 

To  come  and  dwell  beside  the  sea. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  137 

Frederick  Hollingsworth 

Frederick  Hollingsworth  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  English 
Hollingsworth.  He  was  born  on  a  farm  near  Iowa  City,  Iowa. 
When  he  was  eight  years  old  his  parents  moved  from  Iowa  and  set- 
tled at  Blair,  Washington  County,  Nebraska,  where  he  received  a 
common  school  education,  but  he  neither  graduated  nor  received  a 
literary  training.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  became,  like  Edison, 
a  newsboy  on  a  passenger  train.  Later  he  became  fireman,  and 
then  locomotive  engineer,  which  occupation  he  followed  for  a  num- 
ber of  years.  He  came  to  San  Diego  in  1906,  where  the  beauties  that 
surrounded  him  inspired  him  to  write  verse. 


SAN  DIEGO 

Fair  San  Diego  city, 

On  San  Diego's  Bay, 
Is  like  a  gay  theatre, 

Staged  for  a  merry  play. 

The  business  part  the  parquet 
Down  on  the  level  ground, 

While  rising  tiers  behind  it, 
Fine  homes  are  circled  round. 

And  farther  up  the  hillside, 
Just  like  a  flight  of  stairs, 

The  scene  is  viewed  from  windows, 
As  if  from  opera  chairs. 

The  balcony  the  hillcrest, 

An  unobstructed  view, 
And  circling  round  the  ocean, 

That  sets  the  scene  in  blue. 

The  streets  are  lined  with  flowers, 
Extending  back  for  miles, 

The  street  cars  serve  as  ushers, 
That  bring  you  down  the  aisles. 

The  stage  is  on  the  harbor, 
Where  boats  glide  to  and  fro, 

Huge  battleships  and  sailing  craft, 
With  submarines  below. 


138  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

With  daring  airships  soaring, 

Included  in  the  scene, 
A  finer  moving  picture 

Was  never  thrown  on  screen. 

All  day  the  show's  in  progress 

In  this  enchanted  town, 
'Till  night  hides  sun  in  ocean, 

And  rolls  the  curtain  down. 

MY  MOTHER 

Who  was  the  first  good  friend  I  knew 
In  early  youth  when  friends  were  few, 
And  unto  me  was  ever  true? 

My  Mother. 

Who  watched  o'er  me  with  tender  care, 
Who  washed  my  face  and  brushed  my  hair 
And  for  my  welfare  said  a  prayer  ? 

My  Mother. 

Who  grieved  with  me  when  I  was  sad 
Who  plead  with  me  when  I  was  bad, 
And  laughed  with  me  when  I  was  glad? 

My  Mother. 

Who  was  a  friend  to  all  the  boys 
That  came  to  share  my  youthful  joys 
And  ne'er  complained  about  the  noise  ? 

My  Mother. 

Who  spoke  to  me  of  future  days, 
Who  warned  me  of  life's  evil  ways 
That  she  might  always  sing  my  praise? 
My  Mother. 

Who  ever  since  my  day  of  birth, 
Has  always  proved  in  sterling  worth 
The  dearest  friend  to  me  on  earth  ? 

My  Mother. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  139 

THE  LONELY  WOLF 

Late  at  night  when  all  is  still, 

There  comes  upon  the  midnight  air, 

A  plaintive  wail  from  distant  hill, 
A  coyote's  message  of  despair. 

Perhaps  he  wishes  we  were  friends, 
That  he  might  romp  about  our  door, 

So  unto  us  this  message  sends, 
As  he  has  often  done  before. 

With  not  a  friend  in  all  the  land, 
At  night  he  skulks  with  restless  eye, 

He  knows  we  do  not  understand, 
That  he  must  either  steal  or  die. 

Pursued  and  hunted  everywhere, 

When  all  the  world  should  gladly  give, 

To  him  that  cries  in  deep  despair, 
And  begs  for  just  a  chance  to  live. 

The  World  moves  on  we  know  not  why, 
And  each  on  Earth  some  mission  fills, 

We're  born  to  live  and  then  to  die, 
E'en  wolves  that  howl  on  lonely  hills. 

Eli  Lundy  Huggins 

General  Huggins  was  born  in  Schuyler  County,  Illinois,  August 
1,  1842.  He  became  a  private  and  corporal  of  Company  E,  Second 
Minnesota  Infantry,  July  5,  1861-July  14,  1864.  After  service  in 
the  artillery,  he  was  transferred  to  the  Second  Cavalry,  April  11, 
1879;  became  Major  January  13,  1879.  In  February,  1903,  he  was 
made  Brigadier-General.  He  was  thrice  wounded  at  Chickamauga, 
and  was  awarded  the  Congressional  Medal  of  Honor,  February  27, 
1894,  "for  most  distinguished  gallantry  in  action  against  the  Oglala 
Sioux  Indians  near  O'Fallon's  Creek,  Montana,  April  1,  1880."  It 
was  General  Huggins  who  received  the  surrender  of  Rain-in-the- 
Face,  the  slayer  of  Custer,  and  800  other  Sioux,  in  October,  1880. 
He  was  retired  at  his  own  request  after  forty-two  years  of  service, 
February  23,  1903.  His  volume  of  poems,  "Winona:  A  Dakota 
Legend  and  Other  Poems,"  was  published  in  1890.  He  also  con- 
tributed a  novel  to  the  Overland  Monthly.  The  following  sonnets 
were  written  in  San  Diego  where  he  has  resided  for  the  last  ten 
years. 


140  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

TO  A  FAIR  SAN  DIEGAN 

Why  blooms  the  fairest  flower  'neath  rosy  skies, 
Where  all  is  bloom  and  fragrance?  Why  unfold 
Here,  where  the  nectar  that  its  petals  hold, 

Amid  the  orange  groves  neglected  lies, 

And  all  its  perfume  all  unheeded  dies! 

And  thou  dear  maid  with  wealth  of  love  untold, 
More  precious  far  than  mines  of  gems  or  gold, 

Why  linger  longer  'mid  these  listless  eyes? 

O  with  thy  voice  and  smile  ineffable, 
And  eyes  so  meet  for  sympathetic  tears, 
Seek  some  sad  land  oppressed  by  grief  and  fears, 

A  bright  consoling  angel  there  to  dwell, 

Fly  ere  thy  robes  are  wet  with  honey  dew, 

And  thine  own  sweetness  cloys  thee  through  and  through. 

English  version  of  a  Spanish  sonnet  written  more 
than  three  hundred  years  ago  by  Lope  de  Vega.t 

Pepita  bids  me  write  for  her  a  sonnet, 

The  unwonted  task  I  must  of  course  essay, 

Her  lightest  wishes  always  I  obey, 
(Although  I'd  rather  buy  her  Easter  bonnet). 
So  here's  the  first  quatrain,  pray  do  not  con  it, 

I  hope  to  write  the  rest,  with  some  delay. 

Unto  the  goal  this  rhyme  is  just  half  way, 
As  for  the  second  quatrain  I  have  done  it. 
Into  the  ink  once  more  I  dip  my  quill, 

And  down  the  home  stretch  now  I  hope  to  fleet, 
Pegasus  ambling  almost  at  his  will, 

And  though  with  Petrarch  I  might  not  compete, 
The  next  line  will  my  dreaded  task  fulfill, 

For,  here's  my  sonnet,  fourteen  lines  complete. 


~\This  sonnet  is,  in  the  original,  a  very  graceful  bit  of  persiflage. 
Its  author  has  been  requested  by  a  senorita  to  write  a  sonnet  for 
her.  It  is  something  he  has  seldom  or  never  done,  but  he  will  try  it. 
Then  he  finds  that  he  has  already  written  the  first  quatrain.  He 
goes  on  telling  of  his  progress  and  what  he  is  about  to  do,  and  begins 
to  hope  that  the  task  will  prove  easier  than  he  had  feared.  He 
continues  in  the  same  way,  until  he  finds  that  he  has  written  four- 
teen lines  and  the  sonnet  is  completed  before  he  realized  that  he  had 
made  more  than  a  beginning. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  141 

Elizabeth  Howard  Hyde 

Mrs.  Hyde  was  born  in  Le  Mars,  Iowa,  where  her  parents  and 
older  sisters  joined  a  colony  of  Southern  neighbors  to  "pioneer.' 
Her  mother  was  as  helpless  as  the  average  Southern  girl,  used  to 
colored  servants,  but  she  readily  adjusted  herself  to  the  primitive 
life,  though  with  many  a  longing  for  the  old  home  in  Maryland. 
As  a  child,  Mrs.  Hyde  was  always  a  dreamer,  for  to  her  the  real 
things — droughts  and  grasshoppers — were  not  very  attractive.  She 
came  to  California  as  a  small  child,  and  this  dreamland  of  fruit 
and  flowers  fully  satisfied  her  longing  for  beauty.  Studied  at  the 
Los  Angeles  Normal  School,  and  taught  in  Colton  and  Riverside. 
After  marriage  she  did  society  editor's  work  on  Redondo,  Riverside 
and  other  papers.  Has  written  for  the  Los  Angeles  Times  and 
Examiner  and  a  number  of  magazines.  In  1914  she  began  to  write 
verse  and  has  found  pleasure  in  it  ever  since.  Is  a  member  of 
Writers'  Club  of  San  Diego;  Poetry  Society  of  America;  the  Drama 
League;  and  the  San  Diego  Art  Guild. 

LARK-ELLEN'S  VOICE 

(To  Ellen  Beach  Yaw) 
It  is  the  skylark's  wild,  glad  song, 
So  high  above  earth's  droning  throng! 
No,  'tis  the  purling  of  lost  brooks, 
That  seek  to  rest  in  shadowy  nooks, 
Or  winds  that  moan  through  leafless  trees; 
It  is  the  flower-perfumed  breeze  ; 
The  lone  night-bird's  call  to  his  mate ; 
'Tis  love's  rebuke  to  cruel  hate. 
A  violin's  weird,  minor  strain, 
And  then — a  lost  soul's  cry  of  pain ! 
A  mother's  crooning  lullaby, 
And  now  a  tear — a  laugh — a  sigh — 
A  call  to  Live,  to  Love, — Rejoice! 
It  is  our  own  "Lark-Ellen's"  Voice! 

THE  UNWELCOME  DOVE  OF  PEACE 

I  saw  a  dove  wing  through  the  air. 
It,  weary,  fluttered  here  and  there ! 
It  seemed  bewildered,  in  its  flight — 
Nor  seemed  to  know  just  where  to  light ! 
No  dove-cot  near ;  of  food  no  trace ; 
No  welcome  found ;  no  resting  place, — 
And  it  wearily  fluttered — out  of  sight! 


142  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

A  message  winged  through  the  air! 
It  flitted  here;  it  fluttered  there. 
Through  the  bewildered  world,  it  flew, 
To  war-mad  nations,  near,  it  drew, — 
No  welcome  heard ;  no  resting  place. 
Strange,  in  a  world  advanced  in  Grace ! 
And  it  drearily  fluttered  on  and  on. 
How  long  will  bereft  children  moan? 
Man  ne'er  to  woman  can  atone. 
Long  years,  all  lives  must  feel  the  blight. 
The  far-flamed  Viper  doth  ignite 
The  greed,  the  passions,  lust  for  blood, 
Swirling  earth's  peoples,  in  hate's  flood. 
Each  prays  to  win !  They  but  blaspheme ! 
God  hath  not  ears  where  curses  teem. 
God  only  knows  Truth,  Peace,  all  Good, 
For  God  is  Love;  true  Brotherhood! 
God  doth  not  change.    This  war  shall  cease ! 
All  earth  must  seek  this  Dove  of  Peace. 

HOMELESS  JIMMIE 

Yes,  I'm  nine,  the  worst  age,  they  say, 
When  it  comes  to  givin'  a  boy  away; 
Lots  of  folks  ruther  have  girls, 
Or  a  teeny  baby,  with  yeller  curls. 
That  they  want  'em,  I  don't  see  why, 
They  can't  do  nothin'  but  laugh  or  cry! 
I  can  work  an'  whittle,  you  bet  your  life ! 
If  you  show  me  the  job  an'  lend  me  a  knife. 
You  think  a  city  chap  won't  know  how 
To  do  any  chores,  nor  milk,  nor  plow, 
But  I'm  sure  willin'  any  work  to  do, 
And  how  I'm  learnin'  is  up  to  you. 
A  feller  who  once  lived  on  our  street 
Said  country  folks  had  plenty  to  eat ! 
Swore  he  ate  an  orange  ofFn  a  tree — 
Say,  do  you  s'pose  he  was  guyin'  me? 
In  the  city  they  always  come  in  a  box  ; 
Had  'em  when  a  kid,  in  my  Xmas  socks. 
Patsy  was  out  on  a  farm  for  a  week, 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  143 

Of  "pasture"  and  "dairy"  I  heard  him  speak, 
Of  "milkin"  an'  "churnin"  an'  'pon  my  word 
He  rode  a  horse  to  drive  up  the  herd ! 
That  would  be  great; — But  what  gets  me 
Is  eatin'  fruit  from  a  blamed  old  tree. 

He  said,  every  day  they  had  milk  and  bread ; 
Mother  gave  us  that,  but  now  she  is  dead ! 
Miss  her?    Well,  let's  not  talk  about  that, 
(With  fast  batting  eyes  to  keep  the  tears  back). 
"Let  you  love  me?"    Yes,  but  don't  make  a  row, 
A  feller  can't  stand  fussin',  nohow. 

Oh,  I  s'pose  I  will  bother  you  some — 

Some  things  I  do  awfully  bum ! 

Oh,  y-e-s,  of  course,  sure  I'll  go  to  school ; 

Can't  hurt  a  feller  much  to  talk  by  rule, 

Tho'  I'd  ruther  plow  an'  plant  the  crop 

<\n'  peas  an'  beans  an'  pertaters  drop. 

Pat  said  he  gathered  eggs  from  a  nest, 

Of  all  the  eats  he  liked  'em  best ! 

But  I'd  ruther  save  them  for  baby  chicks 

An'  little  turkeys  an'  ducks,  that  picks 

At  seeds,  an'  drinks,  then  rustles  some  more — 

Saw  'em  in  a  window,  down  in  a  store. 

He  said  he  ate  grapes  right  off  the  vine! 

Maybe,  but  them  ain't  the  city  kin'. 

Say,  have  you  got  a  watermelon  patch  ? 

I  never  did  have  enough  at  a  batch. 

I'll  have  to  wait  for  them  to  get  ripe? 

Can  eat  all  I  want,  and  not  have  to  swipe! 

Don't  s'pose  I  could  have  a  dog  all  my  own? 

(With  timid  glance,  and  low  wistful  tone)  ; 

I  can !    An'  a  cat,  a  calf  an'  a  pig ! 

Gee,  mister,  but  I'll  get  in  an'  dig! 

Mother  will  know  it,  an'  won't  she  bless  you! 

She  can  see  down  where  the  stars  shine  through. 

Why,  I'll  work  an'  whistle  all  day  long; 

Go  to  school,  learn  a  lot,  grow  big  an'  strong. 

Sure  I  ain't  dreamin'  ?    It  can't  be  true ! 

When  can  we  start  ?    When  can  I  go  home  with  you  ? 


144  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Stiles  Johnson 

Stiles  Johnson  is  a  youth  of  sixteen,  who  has  literary  tastes,  and, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  compelled  to  leave  High  School  after 
the  completion  of  the  first  half  of  his  freshman  year,  is  endeavoring 
to  satisfy  them.  There  is  no  need  for  him  to  be  disheartened. 
Many  a  man  has  risen  to  heights  of  intellectual  power  whose  early 
life  seemed  full  of  hardship. 

A  LAMENT 

Somewhere  I  know  there's  a  dull  grey  sky, 

That  threatens  a  flurry  of  snow, 
And  a  cold  sharp  wind  that  rushes  by, 

Setting  bright  cheeks  aglow. 

Somewhere  I  know  there  are  ice-fringed  brooks 

With  frosted  leaves  by  their  sides, 
Somewhere  I  know  there's  a  bird  that  looks 

Back,  as  he  southward  glides. 

Somewhere  I  know  someone's  sharpening  a  skate, 

Someone  repairing  a  sleigh, 
Waiting  impatiently  for  that  near  date 

When  they'll  go  skating  away. 

From  all  their  laughter  and  mirth  I'm  debarred, 

From  all  their  pleasure  and  fun, 
For  winter  to  me  means  but  happiness  marred, 

I  live  in  the  land  of  the  sun. 

I  live  where  the  flowers  bloom  all  the  year  round, 
And  so  tiresome  they  soon  get  to  be, 

That  I  long  for  an  autumn  to  dash  them  aground 
And  take  all  the  leaves  from  a  tree. 

There's  a  tropical  wind  from  the  desert  today, 

In  the  heat  it's  refreshing  to  know, 
That  somewhere  today  in  a  land  far  away, 

There  may  come  the  first  flurry  of  snow. 


JOHN  VANCE 


I 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  145 

Orlando  W .  Kinne 

O.  W.  Kinne  was  born  in  Camden,  New  York,  in  1839.  On  the 
death  of  his  parents,  in  his  early  childhood,  he  was  adopted  by  his 
uncle,  Amos,  and  brought  up  on  a  farm.  In  1861  he  enlisted  and 
served  two  years  in  the  Civil  War.  In  1863  married  and  entered 
the  lumber  and  mill  business.  In  1883  moved  to  Topeka,  Kansas, 
remaining  there  until  1889,  when  another  move  was  made  to 
Denver,  Colorado.  Came  to  San  Diego  in  1911.  For  the  past  forty 
years  he  has  written  much.  The  following  introductory  comment 
is  from  "On  the  Margin,"  in  the  San  Diego  Union. 


OF  THE  MAKING  OF  SONNETS  THERE  IS  NO  SIGN  OF 

AN  END.— By  "Yorick" 

An  elderly  gentleman  walked  into  my  presence  the 
other  day  and  informed  me  quite  as  a  matter  of  fact 
that  he  was  a  writer  of  sonnets — that  he  had  written 
scores,  perhaps  hundreds  of  sonnets,  and  that  he 
would  like  to  have  my  opinion  on  a  few  that  he  had 
brought  with  him. 

Naturally,  the  announcement  in  this  manner  of 
speaking  took  my  breath  away.  A  sonnet,  as  every- 
body knows,  is  the  essence  of  brief  poetic  expression. 
It  is  not  as  easy  of  conception  or  execution  as  a 
limerick  or  an  Imagist  madrigal.  The  poet  who 
writes  even  a  passable  third-rate  sonnet  must  be  a 
skilled  mechanician  of  verse  in  the  first  place,  as  a 
cameo  cutter  must  be  a  mechanician  of  art — not  a 
mere  artisan  whose  graving  tools  are  fit  only  for 
the  sculpturing  of  tombstones.  And  when  this  gen- 
tle visitant  told  me  that  sonnets  were  his  favorite 
metier  I  was  doubtfully  interested  and  curious  withal. 

I  asked  to  see  his  wares,  and  this  is  what  he  gave 
me — the  title  was  "A  Laurel  Leaf"  : 


146  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Memorial  of  the  fast  receding  years — 

Of  hallowed  days,  of  moments  intertwined 
About  the  silent  windows  of  the  mind  ; 

Reminder  of  the  joyful  time  that  nears, 

When  Autumn  flourishes  her  gleaming  shears, 
Moved  by  an  impulse  that  is  undefined, 
And  cuts  wherever  her  fingers  are  inclined, — 

A  dream,  almost  forgotten,  reappears. 

A  smiling  valley  and  a  purling  brook ; 

A  pathway  leading  through  a  shady  dell  ; 
A  maiden  with  a  soul-bewitching  look ; 

A  purple  leaflet  quivering  as  it  fell ; 
A  dimpled  hand  that  laid  it  in  this  book ; 

A  brief  adieu — that  proved  a  last  farewell. 

KNOCKING  OPPORTUNITY 

"This  is  a  sonnet,"  said  I  to  myself;  "a  genuine 
spark  from  the  fire  divine — and,  mayhap,  a  true 
reminiscence  out  of  fond  recollection  of  a  lover's 
soul."  "What  is  your  name,  Sir  Poet?"  I  asked;  and 
he  told  me  that  it  was  O.  W.  Kinne  and  that  he  had 
lived  a  long  time  in  San  Diego.  So  I  asked  him  for 
another  of  the  same  quality  and  he  gave  me  this  one, 
a  pessimistic,  fatalistic  bit  of  verse  called  "Oppor- 
tunity" : 

Thou  art  unstable — fleeting  as  a  thought — 

As  fickle  as  the  winds  that  fly  by  night ; 

Uncertain  are  thy  steps,  unsafe  thy  flight ; 
And  all  thy  pathways  are  with  danger  fraught. 
He  who,  perchance,  in  thy  embrace  is  caught, 

And  supplements  his  manhood  with  thy  might, 

Is  soon  defrauded  of  his  specious  right — 
His  aspirations  turned  to  less  than  nought. 
Master  of  nothing.  Cease  thy  vacant  boast. 

Mayhap  thou  callest  once,  more  likely  thrice, 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  147 

But  destiny  is  wrought  for  high  and  low, 
And  none  escapes  the  goal.    Thou  dost  not  know 
The  value  of  a  soul,  nor  hast  the  price 
Of  human  happiness — thou  art  a  ghost ! 

PICTURING  A  SONNETEER 

These  are,  in  my  opinion,  very  good  sonnets,  their 
chief  merit  being  their  simplicity  of  utterance  and 
the  sanity  of  their  figures  and  similes.  This  is  high 
praise  in  judgment  on  the  modern  sonnet,  most  of 
the  artificers  of  which  seem  to  think  that  because  the 
mechanical  form  of  the  fourteener  is  so  condensed, 
they  must  compress  their  thought  into  a  sort  of  steno- 
graphic habit,  cryptic  in  its  obscurity,  allusive  and 
altogether  uncomeatible — like  an  intricate  Chinese 
puzzle  or  the  symbolism  of  the  Egyptian  glyptic 
writings  before  the  Rosetta  key  was  applied. 

I  picture  these  sonneteers  with  tongues  a-cheek 
and  legs  a-twist  screwing  the  lid  of  a  pint  jar  of  son- 
net to  hold  a  quart  of  sonnet  stuff.  I  am  glad  that 
Poet  Kinne  doesn't  use  a  thought  compressor  when 
he  preserves  the  fruit  of  his  meditation  in  a  sonnet. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MYRON  REED 

The  people  listened  with  enraptured  ears 

To  clear-cut  words,  more  valuable  than  gold  ; 

To  sentences  that  will  survive  the  years, 
Outlive  the  centuries  and  ne'er  grow  old ; 

To  truths  more  choice  than  Oriental  pearls — 

Their  value  recognized  among  the  worlds. 

No  death  can  silence  his  prophetic  voice  ; 

No  dissolution  dim  the  scenes  portrayed ; 
The  views  presented,  that  we  might  rejoice, 

Face  things  eternal  and  not  be  afraid. 
No  grave  can  hide  the  beauty  of  his  mind, 
Nor  cover  up  the  prospect  he  outlined. 


148  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

He  lives  today — immortalized  on  earth — 
Incarnate  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  life ; 

Pulsating  with  a  newer,  broader  birth — 
A  stalwart  leader  in  the  fields  of  strife. 

His  memory  moves  to  greater,  grander  deeds, 

To  higher  privileges  and  worthier  meeds. 

He  speaks  as  fluently  as  in  the  past ; 

As  forcibly  he  points  us  to  the  chart 
Of  human  Hope.     His  lessons  will  outlast 

The  senseless,  soulless  predicates  of  art. 
His  wisdom  is  as  deep  and  forceful  now 

As  when  the  flush  of  youth  lit  up  his  brow. 

The  poor  man's  counsellor;   the  widow's  friend; 

The  mourner's  helper  in  the  hour  of  death ; 
The  burden  bearer,  and  the  one  to  lend 

Substantial  comfort  with  his  latest  breath. 
Each  moment  of  his  life  he  found  reward 
In  turning  bitterness  to  sweet  accord. 

Progression  found  in  him  an  advocate 
Worthy  of  adding  prestige  to  her  steel. 

Truth  vanquished  superstition ;  rose  in  state, 
Confirmed  her  case  and  granted  no  appeal. 

He  gave  to  character  a  higher  place, 

And  guaranteed  Misfortune  no  disgrace. 

All  men  were  brothers ;  and  he  recognized 
A  kindred  sentiment  in  every  heart. 

He  loved  Humanity ;  and  compromised 
No  man's  prerogative,  in  whole  or  part. 

His  criticisms  were  profoundly  just, 

Piercing  deception  'neath  the  social  crust. 

He  had  compassion  for  the  child  of  sin ; 

In  barren  places  scattered  goodly  seed. 
He  took  the  wretch  for  what  he  might  have  been, 

And  proved  a  Good  Samaritan  indeed. 
The  summons  came — he  parted  with  his  sheep — 
Laid  down  the  shepherd's  crook  and  fell  asleep ! 

Denver,  Colorado,  February  10,  1900. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  149 

W.  Buell  Knapp 

W.  Buell  Knapp  was  born  in  Virginia  City,  Nevada,  February 
7,  1862.  Leaving  school  in  his  early  years,  he  identified  himself 
with  minstrelsy  and  farce  comedy,  when  he  was  constantly  writing 
limericks,  and  the  like;  but  not  until  he  came  to  San  Diego  in  1915, 
and  was  inspired  by  the  beauties  of  the  Exposition,  did  he  write 
verse. 

MY  IDEAL 

O,  this  beautiful  land  of  sunshine, 

Delightful  haven  of  rest! 
With  devotion  I  worship  your  shrine ; 

San  Diego,  I  love  you  the  best ! 

Your  wealth  of  sweet-scented  flowers, 

Where  infinite  beauty  abides, 
What  a  glorious  privilege  is  ours, 

Enjoying  what  Nature  provides! 

I've  seen  the  quaint  idols  of  China, 

And  also  the  wonders  abroad; 
Your  offerings  are  truly  diviner; 

They  lead  one  nearer  to  God. 

With  your  Fair  I'm  surely  delighted, 

Its  charms  are  full  of  real  worth ; 
I'm  so  glad  that  all  are  invited 

To  visit  this  Heaven  on  Earth ! 

I  worship  you  like  a  fond  lover, 
My  devotion  I  fain  would  reveal ; 

In  the  quest  I  failed  to  discover 
Another  like  you,  My  Ideal ! 

TAKE  THE  BITTER  WITH  THE  SWEET 

Does  your  life  seem  sad  and  bitter? 

Are  your  pathways  dark  and  drear? 
Have  surroundings  lost  their  glitter? 

Does  the  world  no  longer  cheer? 
Would  you  wish  the  prospect  brighter, 

Where  the  lights  and  shadows  meet  ? 
You  can  make  your  burdens  lighter — 

Take  the  bitter  with  the  sweet. 


150  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Is  your  heart  suppress'd  by  sorrow  ? 

Do  you  sometimes  shrink  with  fear? 
Brighter  days  may  come  tomorrow, 

Making  life  worth  living  here. 
Tho'  the  darkest  hour  seems  longest, 

We  should  dream  of  no  defeat — 
But  thro'  pain  become  the  strongest ; 

Take  the  bitter  with  the  sweet. 

We  shall  find,  in  all  life's  troubles, 

That  they  seldom  come  to  stay : 
They  will  disappear  like  bubbles — 

Fade  from  view  and  pass  away. 
When  the  soul  is  filled  with  sadness, 

Patience  will  her  rounds  repeat, 
Changing  all  our  woe  to  gladness — 

Take  the  bitter  with  the  sweet. 

Madge  Leopold 

Madge  Leopold  was  born  and  brought  up  in  a  New  York  city 
flat.  When  she  first  came  West  she  would  walk  on  the  hills  with 
her  arms  stretched  out  to  take  in  the  vastness  of  it  all — space  seemed 
so  wonderful  to  her.  Has  lived  in  Denver  and  San  Diego  for  the 
past  twelve  years.  Is  the  wife  of  a  mechanic  and  the  mother  of 
two  children,  and  is  now  taking  the  two  years'  course  of  study  at 
the  State  Normal  School. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 

PRAYER  ACROSTIC 

Just  at  the  close  of  the  "Garden"  Fair ; 
Observe  we  the  last  call  to  honor  our  bards. 
Awake  in  each  heart,  Lord,  the  fervent  prayer; 
Quicken  us  to  see  beauty  in  flower  that  nods, — 
Universe  glorious  with  gifts  of  the  Gods ! 
Instead  of  our  grovellings,  worry  and  fret, 
Natural  living,  clear  thinking,  contentment  beget. 

More  blame  be  to  us  in  this  Land  of  the  Sun, 
Invited  to  feast  as  our  poets  have  done, 
Lifted  up  by  the  ozone  and  cheered  by  the  glow, 
Leave  we  nothing  to  others,  as  they  did,  ere  we  go? 
Enlarge  our  capacities  to  see,  know  and  feel  ; 
Rouse  music  within  us,  as  fruits  of  their  zeal. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  151 

Pearl  La  Force  Mayer 

Mrs.  Pearl  La   Force   Mayer   is   a   member   of   the   San   Diego 
Woman's  Press  Club  and  of  the  San  Diego  Poetry  Society. 

SONG  OF  THE  DESERT 

Oh,  I  sing  the  song  of  the  desert  plain, 

Where  the  winds  of  God  blow  there  wild  and  free! 
Where  the  sweep  of  things  is  divinely  great, 

Oh,  that  is  the  place  for  the  heart  of  me ! 

Out  there  is  the  land  of  majestic  space! 

Out  there  is  the  land  where  the  sand-whirls  rise 
In  the  flowing  columns  of  sunlit  grace, 

And  there  stretch  the  plains  and  there  reach  the  skies! 

On  that  swinging  plain,  oh,  the  sun  is  king, 
And  his  reigning  light,  it  is  fierce  and  bold. 

Oh,  the  day,  new  born,  it  is  cradled  pink, 
And  it  dies  at  last  in  a  bed  of  gold ! 

In  the  swing  of  its  noble  lines  is  rest, 

And  I  love  it  as  sailors  love  the  sea ! 
In  the  song  of  its  silence,  peace  there  is, 

And  it  gives  content  to  the  heart  of  me ! 

Oh,  I  sing  the  song  of  the  desert  plain, 

Where  the  winds  of  God  blow  there  wild  and  free! 
Where  the  sweep  of  things  is  divinely  great, 

With  potential  touch  of  eternity ! 

A  MAN  AND  THE  DESERT 

At  morn — its  wind  swept  spaces  wide  and  bare, 

And  exaltation  in  my  soul ! 

My  horse  and  I  race  out  to  meet  the  coming  dawn. 

I'm  glad  God  made  us  so  that  we  could  feel! 

For  desert  dawn's  a  moving  pean  that 

Is  sung  with  colors  and  with  winds — 

The  pulsing  morn  exults  with  joy  and  praise! 


152  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

At  noon — it's  brazen,  flaming,  blinding  heat 

And  misery  sears  my  veins ! 

My  horse  and  I  sink  down 

Beneath  the  sagging  tent 

And  long  for  deep  dark  shade  and  mossy  dell. 

For  desert  noon's  a  flaming  beauty  most 

Intensified  and  wanton  cruel, 

And  any  one  who  goes  her  way — knows  hell ! 

At  night — it's  charm,  and  thought,  and  mystery, 

And  heart  gates  swing  out  wide ! 

The  stars  are  living  things 

That  call  to  us  across 

Its  purple  peace,  and  wake  out  sweet  desires 

And  all  our  fond  intensest  dreams — 

For,  ah,  the  desert  does  no  thing  by  halves; 

The  magic  of  its  night  has  charmed  my  soul ! 


Ellen  Morrill  Mills 

Ellen  Morrill  Mills  is  a  transplanted  native  of  Maine,  of  old 
colonial  stock,  who  has  been  so  long  in  California,  and  beautiful 
La  Jolla,  that  she  regards  herself  as  a  Californian.  She  is  a  busy 
business  woman,  engaged  in  real  estate,  but  with  a  fondness  for 
scribbling  verses  and  other  things  when  she  can  find  time. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OREGON 

Some  praised  the  days  of  sailing  ships,  of  white  wings,  fair 
and  free, 

And  "hearts  of  oak,"  that  nobly  dared  the  dangers  of  the  sea. 

They  mourned  degenerate  seamanship,  viewed  modern  craft 
with  scorn, 

But  their  scoffing,  changed  to  a  pean  of  praise  for  the  match- 
less "Oregon !" 

She  lay  in  the  harbor,  inert  and  grim, 

And  the  ripples  of  the  tide 
Licked,  with  a  thousand  glistening  tongues, 

Her  massive  iron  side. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  153 

A  sea  gull  drifted  overhead, 

And  its  timid  shadow  lay 
A  moment  on  the  great,  grim  guns, 

That  could  keep  a  fleet  at  bay. 

A  vision  of  might  in  calm  repose 

Was  the  monster  resting  there, 
But  a  message  sped  from  the  north,  to  rouse 

The  lion  from  its  lair. 

Over  the  wires,  from  the  Nation's  chief, 

Flashed  news  of  a  foreign  foe. 
"Cuba!   The  Maine!"    Weird  voices  sang, 

And  the  "Oregon"  must  go ! 

The  "Oregon"  has  waked  to  life  ; 

Her  giant  pulses  beat 
In  time  and  tune  to  clash  and  clang 

And  the  hurried  tread  of  feet. 

Out  of  the  harbor  mouth  at  last 

And  off  on  her  long,  wild  race ! 
Nor  wind  and  wave  the  only  foes 

For  the  "Oregon"  to  face! 

The  might  of  the  subtle,  treacherous  one, 

Her  tubes  full  charged  with  doom ; 
Let  the  searchlight  eye  of  the  speeding  ship 

Guard  well,  in  hours  of  gloom! 

The  dread  of  the  fabled,  hostile  fleet, 

Somewhere  on  the  ocean  plain ; 
It  may  be  the  might  of  the  "Oregon" 

Against  the  ships  of  Spain ! 

League  after  league  flashed  past  in  foam, 

Coast  after  coast  went  by ; 
Cape  Horn,  the  king  of  storms,  is  past; 

Full  in  her  path  may  lie 


154  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

The  fleet  that  numbers  five  to  one, 

Perhaps  now  rushing  on 
To  match  its  hate  and  its  old  world  might 

With  the  power  of  the  "Oregon." 

A  smoke  cloud  on  the  horizon  clear — 

And  is  it  friend  or  foe  ? 
A  fight  to  face,  or  the  armored  strength 

Of  Sampson  ?    An  hour  will  show ! 

The  hour  is  past.    In  the  waiting  fleet, 
The  news  goes  round  with  a  cheer 

That  tells  the  skies  of  the  tale :     "Hurrah ! 
The 'Oregon'  is  here!" 

Hurrah  for  the  cruiser-battleship !    Wherever  she  may  be, 
May  she  still  defy,  as  on  the  voyage,  the  dangers  of  the  sea! 
De  some  still  scoff  at  modern  craft?     Then  leave  them  in 

their  scorn. 
Complaint  shall  die  as  we  raise  a  cheer  for  our  matchless 

"Oregon!" 

THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  SHIPS* 

They  say  the  day  will  come  when  man  shall  hold 

His  hard  won  empire  of  imperial  air. 
When,  soaring,  he  will  cast  upon  the  winds 

The  toys  wherewith  his  careless  youth  was  blest. 
Then  will  he  scorn,  will  he,  too,  soon  forget 

Ocean,  his  dear,  rough  nurse  of  boyhood  years, 
And  the  white  ships,  his  sisters,  aye,  his  mates 

In  many  a  venture  fraught  with  glowing  chance  ? 

Cradled  long  years  in  living  oak  and  ash 
Our  substance  rested,  till  he  called  it  forth ; 

Fashioned  at  length  to  flitting  shapes  that  knew 
The  cold  north  spray,  the  languid,  scented  gulf. 

Who  taught  this  boy-god,  Man,  to  hold  true  course, 
Though  thousand  storms  disputed  every  league  ? 

*  This  was  written  for  the  dedication  of  the  Wednesday  Club- 
house in  San  Diego,  the  conventionalized  ship  or  galleon  being  the 
symbol  of  that  organization. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  155 

Who  held  him  safe,  or  cradled  him  at  last 

In  cool,  sea-f  ronded  peace  ?    We,  we  the  ships ! 

Shall  new  things  break  the  sea  charm,  dim  the  spell 
Of  cool  horizons,  far  beneath  the  stars? 

We  cannot  soar ;  lie  fettered  in  the  grasp 

Of  God's  eternal  mystery,  the  Sea. 
As  shift  the  changing  mists  across  its  face, 

We  fear  to  pass  in  power,  know  reproach, 
Forlorn  in  some  shrunk  marsh,  with  shredded  sail. 

Shall  not  our  soul,  tuned  to  the  endless  tides, 
Live  in  some  sign,  some  symbol  of  the  Ships  ? 

May  we  not  hope  that  kind  remembrance  dwells 
Still  in  the  hearts  that,  youthful,  held  us  dear? 

Then,  so  we  die  not,  so,  in  soul,  we  live, 

Place  us  as  symbols,  ever  in  your  gaze. 
Let  us  be  still  your  freighted  argosies, 

Bearing  bright  bales  of  hopes  and  thoughts  and  dreams. 
We  shall  not  mind  those  far,  new  glittering  birds, 

Bearing  to-morrow's  sunrise  on  their  wings, 
If  man  shall  say,  "This  did  I  see  and  know ; 

Thus  did  I  think  and  dream  when  once  I  sailed 
(Ages  ago!)  out  there  beneath  the  stars." 

THE  PASSPORT 

What  wert  thou,  then?  Teller  of  tales  was  I. 
My  tales  were  told,  and  it  grew  cold  on  earth, 
So  I  came  here,  to  the  gate ;  wilt  let  me  in  ? 

Thy  tales — what  of  them  ?    Had  they  wings  to  lift 

Some  tired  soul  above  the  ruck  of  life  ? 

Did  they  hold  cheer,  that  warms  like  a  hearthfire? 

I  cannot  tell  thee ;  but  this  hope  I  hold : 

That  some  saw  gardens  where  the  deserts  spread, 

And  some  the  glint  of  white  wings  in  the  blue — 

Teller  of  Tales,  if  this  be  even  so, 

Enter,  the  gate  of  Heaven  stands  wide  to  thee. 


156  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

THE  GYPSY  HEART 

The  gypsy  road  is  sweet  with  fern, 

All  spicy-green  in  fragrant  nooks. 
And,  deep  within,  I  catch  with  joy 

The  murmuring  of  happy  brooks. 
Back  to  the  town  I  needs  must  go, 

Vigil  to  keep,  and  bread  to  earn; 
Yet  grant  me  first  to  see,  dear  Lord, 

What  lieth  just  beyond  the  turn. 

A  league  beyond  my  work-day  bound, 

The  pageants  of  the  seasons  pass — 
And  who  so  blind  as  I,  so  far 

From  cheering  winds  and  waving  grass  ? 
For  Freedom's  gay  good  fellowship, 

For  Love's  immortal  face  I  yearn. 
These,  with  all  else  that's  fair,  perchance, 

Await  me,  just  beyond  the  turn. 

If  "dust  to  dust"  at  last  be  said, 

Ere  half  my  wistful  dreams  are  born, 

This  much  grant  Thou :  my  dust  would  lie 
(Waft  there  by  vagrant  winds,  at  dawn) 

In  ruts  that  line  the  good  brown  road. 

'Twould  rise,  like  incense  from  its  urn, 

Freed  by  the  heels  of  happy  chance, 
In  sunshine,  just  beyond  the  turn. 

Irving  E.  Outcalt 

Irving  E.  Outcalt,  now  a  professor  in  the  State  Normal  School, 
at  San  Diego,  had  the  privilege  of  being  born  a  farmer's  son.  This 
was  March  16,  1870,  in  Illinois.  He  attended  country  school,  until 
at  seventeen  years  of  age  he  entered  Illinois  University.  Four  years 
later  he  came  to  California  and  lived  on  his  father's  ranch  at 
Miramar.  The  years  1896-8  were  spent  at  Stanford  University, 
where  he  received  his  A.B.  and  A.M.  Since  1898  has  taught  in  High 
Schools  and  the  State  Normal  (spending  1911  in  Europe),  and  it 
was  at  this  latter  that  his  "Admetus,"  a  drama  in  four  acts,  was 
written  and  presented.  The  quality  of  the  drama  can  be  grasped 
only  partially  from  the  three  brief  quotations  given. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  157 

O,  THE  DAY  IS  A  LOOM 

O,  the  Day  is  a  loom  where  the  God  doth  weave, 

A  wondrous  loom  is  the  Day ! 
And  the  gleaming  web  is  the  life  we  leave, 

It  gleams  with  our  work  and  play. 
The  flash  of  the  shuttle,  the  quick  return — 

Doth  the  weaver  smile  as  he  sees  ? 
We  may  love  and  hold,  we  may  love  and  mourn, 

But  what  doth  the  weaver  please? 

O,  the  Day  is  a  harp  to  the  God's  swift  hand, 

A  wondrous  harp  is  the  Day! 
Its  tones  are  the  noises  of  sea  and  land, 

And  strange  is  the  harper's  lay. 
From  the  God's  swift  hand  fly  the  sweet  wild  chords — 

From  the  God's  swift  hand  they  fly ! 
O,  the  music  we  love,  but  we  know  not  the  words 

That  he  sings  as  he  passes  by ! 

THE  DAY  IS  COMING 

The  Day  is  coming!     Phoebus,  lord,  hath  spoken! 

The  huntress'  bow  is  slack,  her  arrows  fail. 
The  Day  is  come!    Dawn's  sweet  dream  is  broken, 

And  rosy  fingers  glimmer  thro'  the  veil. 
The  Day  is  coming !    O'er  the  gray  Aegean 

The  petals  kindle  in  the  orient  rose ; 
And  now  the  flame  hath  touched  the  hills  Euboean, 

And  thro'  the  Muses'  haunts  the  glory  grows ! 

The  Day  is  coming !    O'er  the  western  ocean 

The  mists  are  flying — chastened  is  the  air. 
The  forest  gloom  is  stirred  with  strange  emotion, 

And  one  by  one  lays  all  its  secrets  bare. 
The  Day  is  coming !     Behold  the  blazing  portal ! 

O  man,  stand  up !     To  thee  'tis  given  for  aye 
To  look  with  eyes  that  die  on  light  immortal — 

Behold  the  chariot-throne!   The  God!   The  Day! 


158  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

THE  VISION  OF  HERACLES 

That  tomb, 

It  seemed,  was  but  a  gateway,  now  flung  wide, 
And  I  was  gazing  thro',  into  a  world 
Miraculous  as  that  which  good  Palaemon 
Sees  thro'  his  blindness.    Yet  'twas  but  this  world ; 
For  some  strange  sense  was  suddenly  unsealed 
Within  me,  and  my  spirit  leapt  to  meet 
The  miracles  that  live  within  this  earth ! 
I  heard  a  bird's  song;  and  within — beyond, 
Were  all  the  songs  that  birds  have  ever  sung. 
I  heard  a  child's  laugh — just  a  happy  rill, 
That  told  me  how  a  wondrous  stream  of  joy 
Comes  rippling  down  the  human  centuries. 
I  pluckt  a  flower,  and  in  its  silken  folds 
The  marvel  of  its  beauty  lay  revealed. 
A  million  cups,  like  this,  had  filled  themselves 
With  sunlight  to  the  brim ;  and  every  one 
Had  claspt  its  treasure  unto  life  and  death, 
To  make  this  beauty — dying  in  my  hand. 
The  fragrance  drew  my  spirit  back  thro'  fields 
And  garden-plots  uncounted,  where  the  winds 
Of  long-dead  summers  played,  and  elements 
Climbed  grosssly  from  the  soil,  to  lose  themselves 
In  the  soft  distillation  that  would  mix 
Their  souls  with  beauty — for  a  summer's  morn. — 

But  I  must  not  too  long  withhold  thy  joy: 
I  may  not  tell  thee  all  that  I  perceived 
Thro'  that  new  sense  that  laid  the  husk  aside. 
All  was  of  wondrous  import,  for  I  saw 
That  earth  would  not  be  earth,  if  Death  were  not ; 
That  man  would  not  be  man,  if  Death  were  not  ; 
That  life  would  not  be  life,  if  Death  were  not ; 
That  all  the  beauty  and  the  melody 
Are  molded  and  attuned  in  every  way 
By  those  two  friends — co-workers — Life  and  Death! 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  159 

Mahdah  Payson 

Of  her  literary  work  Mrs.  Payson  thus  speaks : 

I  cannot  remember  the  time  that  ideas,  both  literary  and  musical, 
were  not  forming  in  my  brain  and  clamoring  for  expression,  but 
whether  these  ideas  were  nipped  in  the  bud  by  the  chilling  air  of 
Illinois,  where  I  lived  during  my  early  married  life,  they  did  not 
come  to  maturity  until  I  found  myself  among  the  congenial  sur- 
roundings of  California. 

THE  SKINNER  TO  HIS  MULES 

Wake  up,  my  mules,  and  stand  from  your  beds, 

And  into  your  food  dig  your  muzzles, 

When  your  stomachs  are  full,  go,  strike  the  trail — 

The  dynamite  calls  that  there's  work  to  do, 

His  falling  rock  makes  the  earth  shudder. 

Quiet  there,  mules,  now  all  for  the  pull, 

Pull,  pull  the  rock  sleds  to  the  crushers. 

You've  blinked  through  the  hour  of  pausing  noon 
And  Time  will  not  balk  when  the  sleepy  sun 
Shadows  cactus,  mesquite  and  yucca. 
Point  your  snouts  and  inquisitive  eyes 
To  the  camp  and  your  mess  of  alfalfa. 

No  motoring  man  can  build  his  roads 

As  you,  oh  you  wonder-wise  mules. 

Does  he  thank  you?     Not  he, 

He's  a  vanishing  speck. 

Close  your  eyes  to  his  world, 

Close  your  ears  to  his  honk 

And  sleep.    You  gods  of  my  trust. 


160  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

THE  HOMESTEADER 

Come,  girl  of  mine,  over  the  desert — 
Dig  your  spurs  in  your  cayuse's  flanks — 
The  mouth  of  the  earth  is  open, 
Are  you  faint  in  its  foggy  breath  ? 

My  cabin  waits  in  the  desert 
The  wife  and  the  mother  in  You — 
Alone  in  the  vastness  with  gaunt  God — 
Come,  we  wait  death — for  You. 

MY  SINGING  GARDEN 

In  a  sunny  garden 

Lavender  gold  and  pink — 

I  shared  my  secret 

With  gallardias  thrillingly  gay. 

They  flaunted  the  melting  message 

Down  the  grassy  paths 

Over  the  beds  of  dahlias, 

Blue  larkspur  and  purple  phlox, 

Of  canary-colored  cannas, 

And  lush-green  mignonette. 

Roses  and  copper-brown  roses 

Nodded  the  news  with  the  wind, 

And  the  cheeks  of  virgin  camellias 

Blushed  to  their  gallant  leaves. 

Oh !  the  lavender  gold  and  pink  garden 

Singing  the  song  of  my  secret, 

In  a  world  of  symphonies. 

Mrs.  Satella  Jaques  Penman 

Mrs.  Satella  Jaques  Penman's  letters  of  travel  for  twenty-five 
years  in  many  foreign  countries  and  throughout  the  United  States 
were  solicited  for  publication,  as  were  also  her  lectures  while  in  the 
Iowa  lecture  field  twelve  years.  For  three  years  she  edited  a  col- 
umn in  a  newspaper.  Magazines  have  paid  for  her  verse,  which  has 
been  mostly  for  children. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  161 

THE  STORM  KING 

Pouf !  Heat  of  the  Desert  you're  rising  yet  higher ! 
Ha !  Blast  of  the  Glaciers,  fall  fiercely  upon  it ! 
Now  Friction !  go  gather  the  steam  of  the  sweating, 
The  conflict  will  gender  where  strike  they  each  other, 
And  roll  it  in  fleeces  against  the  blue  heaven, 
To  blacken  while  sinking  for  action ! 

Blow  Tempest,  ye  bugler!     My  chariot's  behind  you 
All  billowy  white,  and  abreast  of  the  forces; 
With  foamy  white  horses  and  wheels  of  a  cyclone ! 
Swift  rolling,  as  lead  we  the  battle  front  lower, 
For  felling  the  timber  and  swirling  the  dust  up, 
While  blowing  our  trumpet  for  conquest. 

Ho!  Prince  of  the  Iceland!  Jack  Frost,  hurry  hither! 
Make  bullets  of  water  to  hail  devastation! 
Aim  straighter,  ye  Lightnings!    Sah !  dazzle  the  vision ! 
Boom  louder,  ye  Thunders !    So !  shaking  the  heavens 
To  loos'ning  the  torrents  with  booming  of  cannon, 
And  the  ball-lightning  shells'  explosion ! 

Ha!  grain  and  the  flowers  and  apple  trees  kneeling! 
The  beasts  loudly  bellow  and  wild  birds  are  calling. 
Mothers  call  shrilly  to  terror-eyed  children 
Who  see  chimneys  throwing  bricks  into  the  windows! 
Wild  shrieks  the  wind  bugler,  while  telephone  wires 
Ice  fingers  are  thrumming,  weird  tones  to  our  drumming, 
As  over  tin  roofing  we  gallop ! 

A  "Peace  be  Still"  falls  now,  upon  the  wild  tumult, 
Dispersing  its  forces.     The  South  Wind  is  wiping 
All  tears  from  the  willows.    The  sun  smiles  a  gladness, 
Through  radiant  raindrops,  which  sing  a  peace  promise, 
From  bars  of  the  rainbow,  while  falling  tink  tonkle, 
In  baptismal  basins  o'erflowing. 


162  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Carroll  De  Wilton  Scott 

Carroll  De  Wilton  Scott  was  born  in  Stevenville,  Texas,  Decem- 
ber 2,  1878.  At  the  age  of  four  his  parents  moved  to  San  Diego 
County,  where  they  lived  on  a  ranch  until  the  son  was  twelve  years 
old,  and  where,  in  one  of  the  country  schools,  he  received  his  early 
education.  He  entered  the  public  schools  of  San  Diego,  and  gradu- 
ated from  the  High  School  in  1898;  then  entered  Stanford  Uni- 
versity, taking  a  law  course,  from  which  he  was  graduated  in  1902. 
Being  more  interested  in  writing  than  in  law,  he  never  practiced 
his  profession.  His  love  for  nature  early  manifested  itself.  After 
leaving  college  he  went  to  Nevada  for  one  year,  where  he  did 
much  writing  along  descriptive  lines.  In  1904  he  taught  history  in 
a  private  military  school  in  San  Mateo.  In  1906  he  travelled  over 
Southern  California  with  a  burro,  studying  birds  and  plants,  and  in 
1908  took  up  intensive  farming  at  Pacific  Beach.  In  September, 
1910,  he  married  Miss  Edith  Mills,  and  remained  on  the  farm  until 
1914.  A  daughter  was  born,  April  12,  1912,  and  a  son,  December 
1916.  Upon  a  return  to  San  Diego  in  1914,  he  studied  bees,  and 
began  writing  in  earnest.  He  was  made  teacher  of  science  in  the 
Francis  Parker  School  in  1914,  where  he  taught  for  one  month,  and 
then  entered  the  City  Public  Schools,  introducing  nature  study  and 
agriculture ;  and  then  returned  to  the  Francis  Parker  School,  where 
he  is  now  teaching.  He  has  written  two  volumes  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  lyrics,  one  for  Little  Children,  and  one  for  Larger  Child- 
ren; and  one  volume  of  Pageant  Plays. 

THE  BUTTERFLY 

Whither  going  butterfly? 
Fairy  from  the  summer  sky 
Dancing  down  the  pleasant  breeze 
Hither,  yon  and  as  you  please. 
Tell  me  ere  you  disappear 
Are  the  fields  of  freedom  near? 

Whither  going,  butterfly  ? 
Restless,  but  with  ne'er  a  sigh ; 
Gay  one,  can  you  tell  me  where 
You  have  slipped  away  from  care  ? 
Was  it  in  the  meadow  grass 
Where  the  breezy  ripples  pass? 

Whither  going,  butterfly  ? 
Brighter  blossoms  do  you  spy? 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  163 

Loiter  here  by  me  and  sup 
Sweets  from  Mariposa's  cup 
Painted  like  thy  dusty  wings, 
Golden,  stained  with  purple  rings. 

Not  a  moment  can  you  wait  ? 
Well,  I  would  not  make  you  late. 
Blooms  are  rife  in  plain  and  dell, 
Goldenrod  or  lily-bell ; 
Thither  hasten,  butterfly, 
Spirit  of  the  summer  sky. 

THE  GREEN  FAIRY 

(The  Black-chinned  Hummingbird,  who  builds  her  nest  of  the  down 
of  the  sycamore  tree) 

Was  it  a  green  fairy 
Whose  wings  the  leaf  stirred, 
Dainty  and  airy, 
Or  just  a  wee  bird? 

There  she  hums  to  her  nest 
The  size  of  a  poppy  cup, 
Moulding  it  with  her  breast, 
Binding  the  edges  up. 

Woven  of  golden  stuff 
From  the  sycamore, 
Feathered  with  willow  fluff, 
Fastened  with  gossamer. 

Where  is  the  fairy  prince 
Decked  out  in  rainbow  sheen 
Whose  flash  makes  you  wince  ? 
Oh,  he  is  seldom  seen. 

Like  a  cavalier  gay, 
A  friend  of  the  flowers, 
He  is  ever  at  play 
In  sunny  hours. 


164  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Soon  two  treasures  white 
In  the  nest  will  lie, 
Surely  a  pretty  sight 
For  the  mother's  eye. 

When  a  twig  is  a  home 
(That  a  breath  carries) 
With  a  leaf  for  a  dome — 
Who  says  there're  no  fairies? 

MEADOWLARK,  MEADOWLARK! 

Meadowlark,  meadowlark,  flute  me  a  measure 
Brimful  of  April,  o'erflowing  with  pleasure; 
Over  the  mesas  on  tremulous  wing, 
Linking  with  music  one  knoll  to  another, 
Where  the  wild  oats  the  tidy-tips  smother — 
You,  the  glad  minstrel  of  happy-heart  Spring. 

Meadowlark,  show  me  your  nest  in  the  grasses, 
Where  the  red  butterfly  dips  as  he  passes. 
Little  I  wonder  your  nestlings  are  gay, 
Snug  in  a  hoof-print,  deeply  arched  over 
With  long  grasses  hidden  by  lupines  and  clover, 
Lulled  by  the  west-winds  the  live-long  day. 

Meadowlark,  meadowlark,  stranger  to  sadness 
Come  I  today  to  partake  of  your  gladness ; 
Hear  your  rich  carolings  near  and  afar ; 
Wade  in  blue  lakelets  of  dainty  lobelias, 
Breathe  the  aroma  of  white-starred  muillias  — 
Beauty  and  sweetness  no  humans  will  mar. 

Amy  Sebree-Smith 

Amy  Sebree-Smith  was  born  in  Arizona.  A  few  months  later 
her  father,  then  a  Lieutenant  in  the  U.  S.  Cavalry,  was  transferred 
to  the  Artillery,  and  went  to  Washington,  D.  C.  From  then  until 
the  death  of  her  father,  over  twelve  years  ago,  she  lived  north, 
south,  east  and  west,  as  is  the  way  in  the  army.  She  studied  under 
teachers  at  home,  later  went  to  High  School  in  Newport,  Rhode 
Island,  and  then  attended  the  Boston  University.  Lived  two  years 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  165 

at  Yellowstone  Park,  and  later  at  Fort  Apache,  Arizona.  While  at 
these  western  points  she  spent  her  time  mostly  in  the  open,  riding 
horseback,  camping,  and  exploring  the  mountains  and  plains.  From 
this  fact  largely  comes  what  knowledge  she  has  of  western  and 
desert  life  and  character.  She  has  written  in  secret  since  she  was 
four  years  old,  when  she  composed  her  first  verse,  entitled  "Violets." 
(It  was  free  verse.)  But  not  until  she  came  to  San  Diego  some  nine 
years  ago  did  she  seem  to  have  the  time  and  opportunity  to  pursue 
the  vocation  of  writing  in  a  more  systematic  fashion.  She  con- 
siders California  an  ideal  place  in  which  to  work,  and  has  received 
great  help  from  the  fact  of  being  a  member  of  the  San  Diego 
Woman's  Press  Club. 

Miss  Sebree-Smith  has  published  verse  in  different  magazines, 
Poetry,  New  York  Times,  Field  and  Stream,  etc.  Has  also  done 
various  kinds  of  newspaper  writing,  from  running  a  weekly  paper 
to  special  article  work  for  New  York  papers. 

THE  ARMY-FLIER 

I  come,  I  go,  in  a  throbbing  breath ; 

My  engine  hums  like  a  giant  bee ; 

And  while  my  wings  whirr  merrily 
I  play  with  a  waiting  Death. 

O,  the  ways  of  earth  my  father  trod ; 

His  task  on  secret  feet  to  go, 

To  hunt  the  trail  of  the  hidden  foe — 
But  I  am  winged,  like  a  god. 

I  come,  a  speck  in  the  lanes  of  air; 

A  moving  dot  of  winged  steel; 

And  far  below  the  foemen  feel 
A  tremor  to  see  me  there. 

For  they  know  I  spy  their  secret  things  ; 

Each  trench  I  sight,  each  point  I  mark. 

Then,  "Crack,  crack,  crack!"  their  air-guns  bark, 
To  crumple  my  whirring  wings. 

I  go — Ah !  swifter  than  death  I  fly ; 

I  smile  their  futile  hate  to  see  ; 

I  bear  their  secrets  back  with  me, 
As  I  wing  the  lanes  of  sky. 


166  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

At  last  will  come  a  time,  I  know, 

When  swiftly  though  I  wheel  in  flight, 

Yet  swifter  will  their  vengeance  smite. 
Then,  falling  to  Death — I  go ! 

TRAILED 

(Written  during  a  dust  storm,  and  founded  on  a  story  told  by  an 
old  prospector) 

He  was  a  meaner  cuss  than  me,  a  meaner  cuss,  by  far — 
We  both  hailed   from   the  muck  of   dust   they  called   the 

"Double-Bar." 

I  ain't  no  saint;  I've  killed  my  men,  but  all  in  open  fight — 
And  yet  Bill  never  saw  the  two  that  trailed  us  day  and  night. 

He  was  my  pal  for  some  ten  years,  and  so  I  played  him 

straight. 
Although  the  thing  he  did  that  night  most  turned  my  love 

to  hate. 

I  killed  my  men  in  open  fight,  the  sheriff  and  his  pack, 
But  Bill  sneaked  on  a  cow-puncher  and  shot  him  in  the  back! 

And  so  it  was  we  jumped  the  Bar  afore  the  light  of  day — 
The  boys  were  comin'  after  Bill,  I  heard  Gold  Bessie  say. 
We  stole  our  ponies  from  the  shed  and  quick  the  saddles 

cinched. 
Bill's  heart  is  black  and  no  mistake — but  I  couldn't  see  him 

lynched. 

At  dawn  we  crossed  the  desert  hills ;  the  sun  shot  up  the  sky. 
The  plain  below  was  one  hot  plain,  and — Hell — but  we  was 

dry! 
At  noon  we  drained  our  last  cool  drop  and  loosed  our  saddle 

packs. 
'Twas  then  I  looked  behind  and  saw  those  lean  forms  in  our 

tracks. 

(Two  forms  they  was;  lean  as  starved  wolves,  and  grey  as 

camp-fire  smoke. 
They  walked  with  us,  they  ran  with  us,  but  never  once  they 

spoke. ) 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  167 

At  last  when  all  the  plain  was  red  like  it  was  drippin'  blood, 
And  the  whole  sky  was  covered  with  an  awful  crimson  flood, 
I  stopped  and  pointed  where  They  come,  close  after  our  slow 
feet — 

0  yes,  They  still  was  trailin'  us,  They  never  felt  the  heat. 

1  said  to  Bill,  "I've  stood  enough ;  you  speak  the  truth  or  die !" 
He  looked  at  my  uplifted  arm  and  never  blinked  an  eye. 
"Now,  speak  the  truth,"  I  yelled  at  him;  "now  speak  the 

truth,  you  cuss, 
And  say  you  see  those  two  lean  forms  forever  trailin'  us." 

Pitying-like  he  looked  at  me,  then  looked  Them  through  and 

through. 
"So  help  me,   God,  in  all  these  sands  I  see  no  man  but 

you"  .  .  . 
(Two  forms  They  was,  lean  as  starved  wolves,  and  grey  as 

camp-fire  smoke. 
They  ran  with  us,  They  walked  with  us,  but  never  once  They 

spoke.) 

My  arm  fell  slowly  to  my  side — what  more  was  there  to  say  ? 
So  we  two  men  and  those  two  forms  kept  on  till  came  the  day. 
The  ponies  dropped  dead  in  their  tracks,  and  Bill,  he  dropped 

at  noon. 
His  luck  held  with  him  to  the  last,  and  he  died  good  and 

soon.  .  .  . 

And  now  it's  night  and  those  two  forms  are  trailin'  at  my 

heel; 

No  living  man  can  tire  them  and  thirst  they  never  feel. 
I  ain't  no  saint ;  I've  killed  my  men,  but  all  in  open  fight. 
And  yet  Bill  never  saw  the  two  that  trail  me  day  and  night. 

(Two  forms  they  are,  lean  as  starved  wolves,  all  ghostlike 

in  the  gloom. 
They  walk  with  me,  They  run  with  me,  and  trail  me  to  my 

doom.) 


168  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

WHITE  MAGIC 

(Panama-California  Exposition) 
City  of  magic,  mirrored  in  a  sea 
Of  golden  airs,  what  spell  of  wizardry 
Lifted  your  castled  walls  and  shining  towers, 
Called  forth  your  murmuring  groves  and  perfumed  bowers? 

It  seems  incredible  that  mortal  hands 
Upreared  this  fantasy  of  fairy  lands; 
Fashioned  this  romance  of  an  olden  dream ; 
Rent  the  earth-veil  and  showed  the  inner  Gleam. 

Almost  I  could  believe  Alladin's  spell 
Wove  your  white  walls  at  peal  of  midnight  bell ; 
That  some  far  dawn  saw  shining  domes  arise, 
Enchanted  casements  open  to  the  skies.  .  .  . 

So  musing  in  the  shade  of  your  white  walls, 
City  of  Magic,  while  the  sunlight  falls 
On  winding  walks  of  bloom  and  murmuring  leaves 
I  yield  me  to  the  spell  your  beauty  weaves. 

Louisa  Remondino  Stahel 

Louisa  Remondino  Stahel  is  a  native  Californian,  born  in  San 
Diego,  and  is  the  daughter  of  Dr.  P.  C.  Remondino.  When  under 
ten  years  of  age,  with  a  younger  brother  and  a  friend,  Carlotta 
Davis,  a  girl  of  her  own  age,  who  has  since  become  a  noted  jour- 
nalist writer,  they  edited  and  printed,  with  a  little  set  of  rubber 
type  and  press,  a  small  magazine  which  the  girls  illustrated.  It 
was  a  bright  story  magazine,  which  many  of  their  elder  pioneer 
friends  remember  with  great  pleasure. 

Louisa  Stahel's  first  schooling,  aside  from  her  home  reading  and 
studies,  was  at  the  old  B  Street  Public  School,  San  Diego.  A  little 
later  she  entered  the  Southwest  Institute,  and  remained  for  many 
years,  until  that  school  closed.  Later  she  entered  the  Ella  Hulse 
Private  School  and  the  Mary  B.  Wallace  Academy. 

She  was  married  to  Alfred  Stahel,  Jr.,  in  1905.  She  derives 
her  talent  from  both  her  mother's  and  father's  side,  her  mother 
belonging  to  the  Devonshire  branch  of  the  Earle  family,  which  count 
many  illustrious  names,  both  in  literature,  the  established  church  and 
in  medicine;  and  from  her  father,  Dr.  Remondino,  she  inherits  the 
literary  talent  dating  back  to  the  fourteenth  century,  his  family 
having  been  famous  literati.  She  is  a  member  of  the  San  Diego 
Woman's  Press  Club,  and  the  Poetry  Society  of  America. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  169 

FANCY'S  GARDEN 

Out  of  my  fancy,  last  night  I  made  a  garden ; 

I  waked  the  dark  Earth  from  its  trance, 

Till  moonbeams  smiled  on  me,  lifting  and  drifting 

Their  mystic  shadows,  from  God's  words  I  planted  ; 

The  wind  played  softly  while  I  worked  ; 

I  planted  species  of  words ; 

I  made  a  spring  of  happiness ; 

I  built  a  temple  out  of  golden  smiles ; 

I  planted  blooming  lilies  of  pure  hope ; 

Mingled  forget-me-nots,  like  glances  of  blue  eyes, 

Among  the  ferns  and  then,  I  made  sweet  laughter 

From  the  voices  of  the  rippling  brooks ; 

I  made  a  sapphire  lake,  all  broidered  over  with  pale  water 

flowers  ; 

Along  its  shore  the  pansies  grew,  they  were  my  thoughts. 
I  planted  in  the  garden's  center  an  aged  oak 
With  branches  spread  far  out,  for  hospitality ; 
So  did  I  plant  the  garden  of  my  fancy  with  these  simple 

words. 

The  dove  cooed  to  his  mate  in  the  green  branches, 
And  from  the  spring  a  fountain  rose — and  then,  the  garden 
Grew  into  my  soul,  so  I  may  keep  it  always  for  my  own. 

WOULD  WE  WERE  BIRDS 

Would  we  were  birds  to  soar  and  rise  above 

The  Earth's  great  heart  that  beats  and  throbs ; 

Birds  with  tinted  wings  noiseless  as  sleeping  blossoms. 

Climbing  the  hangings  of  Heaven's  blue  mystic  depths; 

Among  the  clouds  the  draperies  of  the  stars. 

The   banners   of   the   clouds   ravelled   by    Nature's    restless 

fingers — 
The  high  wild  clouds  that  twist  and  turn  invisible  to  mortal 

eye. 

Would  we  were  birds  with  varied  plumage — 

The  snow  white  dove  reflecting  the  gray  and  rose  of  dawn ; 


170  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Or  bird  with  wide  spread  wings  calling  the  world  to  wake 

The  grasses  and  the  flowers  to  sing  ; 

Birds  gay  and  wild  with  gorgeous  colored  plumes 

As  sunset  dipping  its  colors  in  the  sea — 

An  Oriole  slow  drooping  in  its  nest  far  out  of  sight. 

Would  we  were  birds  whispering  in  Twilight  time — 

Watched  by  the  starry  eyes  of  Night ; 

A  blue  black  bird  high  in  the  darkened  sky. 

Would  we  were  Nightingales  singing  God's  music ; 

In  enchanted  gardens — singing  the  rose  to  sleep. 

Would — most  of  all — we  were  the  larks  of  morning — 

Calling,  calling  the  little  children  of  the  Earth  to  wake. 

NATIVE  BIRD  TOWHEE 

Little  brown  Towhee,  with  restless  heart, 
Roaming  the  land  with  the  honey  bee, 

Building  snug  nests  upon  the  ground, 
Or  in  some  lowly  shrubby  tree. 

Sirjg  your  song  of  our  mountains  brown, 
Tell  of  our  far  hills  blue  and  deep ; 

Sing  of  our  meadows  green  and  gold, 
Where  purple  shadows  fall  to  sleep. 

Fly  o'er  our  fields  of  swaying  grain, 

Light  in  the  rushes  and  willow'd  bower, 

Sail  o'er  the  brooklets  twinkling  blue, 
Refreshed  by  cooled  and  summer  shower. 

Your  nest  is  built  of  grass  and  twigs, 
And  lined  with  rootlets  soft  and  strong ; 

Purple  fringed  flowers  wave  and  smile, 
And  listen  to  your  joyous  song. 

Little  Towhee  with  patient  mate, 

Basking  in  golden  sunbeams  rare, 
When  your  small  eggs  spring  forth  into  life, 

Mother  wings  shield  them  with  tender  care. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  171 

Ida  Ghent  Stanford 

Ida  Ghent  Stanford  was  born  near  Greenup,  Kentucky.  Com- 
pleted her  High  School  studies  at  sixteen.  Obtained  a  certificate 
and  taught  three  years  in  her  home  State.  Went  west  to  visit  her 
sisters,  in  Kansas,  Colorado  and  Nebraska.  Taught  one  year  at 
White  Pine,  Colorado,  then  went  to  Nebraska.  Attended  the  Fre- 
mont Chautauqua  and  Teachers'  Association,  where  she  met  Ira 
Edmund  Stanford,  a  teacher  in  North  Bend,  Nebraska.  Taught  one 
year  and  was  married  to  Mr.  Stanford.  Together  they  went  to 
Peru,  to  the  State  Normal,  for  some  professional  training.  After 
finishing  she  helped  her  husband  in  his  work,  teaching  reading  and 
elocution  at  times.  Her  health  gave  way  in  1898,  and  in  1901  they 
moved  to  Phoenix,  Arizona.  In  1906  they  came  to  San  Diego, 
California.  Mrs.  Stanford's  poem,  "The  House  Delightful,"  appears 
in  an  earlier  part  of  this  volume. 

LINE  UPON  LINE 

You  might  crush  a  nut  for  its  kernel, 

And  only  the  one  kernel  keep ; 
Or,  plant  it  deep  where  the  rain's  low  chant 

Shall  lull  it  off  gently  to  sleep, 
Until  some  glad  day  it  will  waken, 

Then  some  other  day  you  will  see 
Thousands  of  nuts  from  your  kernel, 

And  rejoice  that  you  planted  the  tree. 

It's  just  this  way  with  we  mothers 

Who  must  toil  the  whole,  busy  day  long, 
O'er  the  beaten  track  of  "Line  on  Line," 

Of  "Precept,"  lest  feet  go  wrong. 
That  some  distant  day  in  the  future, 

We  shall  come  to  the  fruitage  time ; 
We  plant  thoughts  deep,  in  God's  warm  soil, 

To  see  His  Blest  Likeness  shine. 

Should  we  rudely  search  for  the  kernel, 

Selfish  and  half-hearted?     Nay, 
We  dearly  may  pay  for  the  lesson, 

For  O,  there's  a  much  better  way 
To  get  measure  pressed  down  for  our  trouble 

In  guiding  the  dear  little  feet 
With  patience  and  love  to  our  Father, 

His  kind  approbation  to  meet. 


172  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

So,  be  not  discouraged,  you  Mothers; 

The  day  may  be  weary  and  long, 
But  search  for  the  soil  that  is  deepest, 

And,  methinks,  some  day  the  strong 
Warm  thought  will  unfold  to  the  light, 

The  buds,  then,  with  beauty  will  swell ; 
You'll  gather  those  kernels  together, 

Thankful,  you  planted  so  well. 


Leland  Ghent  Stanford 

The  San  Diego  Union  of  July  8,  1916,  says  the 
following : 

San  Diego  has  a  youthful  poet  for  whom  a  great  future  is 
predicted  by  his  friends  in  Leland  Ghent  Stanford,  the  fourteen- 
year-old  son  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ira  E.  Stanford  of  1595  Linwood 
street.  He  hopes  soon  to  publish  a  collection  of  his  poems  under 
the  title,  "Songs  By  a  Glad  Boy." 

While  other  youngsters  are  turning  their  enthusiasm  toward  the 
doings  of  Ty  Cobb  and  Tris  Speaker,  discussing  the  latest  styles 
in  tops  or  driving  shrewd  bargains  in  "aggies,"  the  "Glad  Boy" 
is  finding  inspiration  for  his  music  in  field  and  sky.  Nevertheless, 
he  takes  the  healthy  boy's  keen  interest  in  sports  and  games,  and 
when  the  spring  days  come,  longs  just  as  ardently  for  freedom  as 
do  his  less  literary  companions.  Else  why  should  he  write: 

"Vacation  times  are  here  at  last; 
Ten  dreary  months  of  school  are  past." 

Apparently  this  freckle-faced,  manly  boy  does  a  lot  of  thinking 
as  he  works  around  his  father's  dairy.  He  philosophizes,  on 
"Growling,"  "What  Means  the  Flag?"  "Speeding,"  and  "What 
Have  We  to  Be  Thankful  For?"  Nor  does  he  overlook  Nature's 
beauties,  for  he  has  written  a  little  couplet  thus: 

"The  little  birds  are  singing,  the  little  flowers  are  gay; 
Our  little  hearts  are  beaming,  for  this  is  Easter  Day." 

Young  Stanford's  best  effort,  and  the  one  which  has  brought  him 
the  most  attention  and  praise,  is  a  poem  on  "The  Exposition  Beauti- 
ful," which  has  been  published  in  pamphlet  form.  This  poem  has 
a  swing  that  is  fascinating,  and  it  visualizes  the  wonders  of  the 
Exposition  in  a  most  inviting  manner.  After  reading  it,  Dr.  Edgar 
L.  Hewitt,  director  of  exhibits,  said: 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  173 

"Let  us  hope  that  this  much-seeing,  beauty-seeing  boy  will  keep 
on.  Leland  is  not  singing  his  own  thoughts  only.  He  is  reflecting 
what  is  in  the  minds  of  thousands  of  boys  and  girls.  May  he  be 
their  faithful  interpreter." 

This  youthful  poet  first  attempted  to  put  his  metrical  imaginings 
on  paper  at  the  age  of  nine  years,  and  his  writings  have  been 
prolific.  He  was  born  near  Lincoln,  Nebraska,  and  came  to  San 
Diego  with  his  parents  when  he  was  four  years  old.  He  is  a 
student  at  the  Grant  School,  to  which  he  has  dedicated  a  poem. 
Stanford  says  that  he  intends  to  follow  the  literary  profession,  and 
is  hoping  that  the  sale  of  the  book  he  is  about  to  issue  will  aid 
him  in  future  study. 

THE  EXPOSITION  BEAUTIFUL 

Where  the  great  Pacific  ocean  rolls  its  billows  high  and  roar- 
ing, 

Where  the  sun  looks  down  and  smiles  upon  the  earth  ; 
Where  the  mocking  bird  and  oriole  so  gracefully  are  soaring, 

And  where  the  people's  hearts  are  full  of  mirth. 
In  the  land  of  sunkist  harbors  where  the  honeysuckle  grows, 
Where  the  vineyards  and  the  arbors  their  delicious  fragrance 

throws. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  beauty  as  it  like  a  diamond  gleams 
Lies  the  city  of  our  longings,  lies  the  city  of  our  dreams. 

The  Exposition's  calling  can  be  heard  from  sea  to  sea, 
As  it  tells  the  nation's  millions  of  the  things  they  here  can  see. 
It  tells  them  of  the  plazas,  of  the  buildings  unsurpassed 
In  beauty  and  in  grandeur,  it  tells  them  then,  at  last, 
Of  the  foliage  and  the  flowers  on  the  bushes  and  the  trees, 
Of  acacias  golden  puff  balls  gently  swaying  in  the  breeze. 

It  tells  them  of  the  Isthmus,  where  the  children  love  to  play, 
And  restores  to  youth  and  spirit  the  head  that's  silver  gray. 
It  speaks  of  lovely  gardens  that  are  in  grandness  unexcelled, 
And  tells  how  all  the  visitors  are  in  amazement  held. 
It  notes  the  out-door  organ,  the  largest  in  the  world, 
With  the  vines  and  shrubs  and  mosses  around   in  beauty 
curled. 


174  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

It  tells  them  of  the  viaduct  that  spans  the  lake  below, 
Where  the  reeds  and  water  lilies,  cat-tails  and  rushes  grow. 
It  talks  about  the  soldiers  who  are  drilling  every  day, 
And  how  the  pretty  pigeons  coo  and  fly  across  your  way. 

It  tells  them  of  the  animals,  the  lion  and  the  deer, 

And  how  the  keeper  pets  them  all  and  never  seems  to  fear. 

It  points  the  grandest  canyons,  where  the  palms  and  peppers 

grow, 
And  where  the  bees  and  humming  birds  are  talking  soft  and 

low. 

O !  you,  with  heart  of  gladness,  and  you,  o'ercome  with  tears, 
Can  you  resist  this  calling  that  will  last  for  many  years? 
Come,  see  this  lovely  city  with  its  banner  bright  unfurled, 
And  see  our  Exposition,  the  grandest  in  the  world, 
And  you  will  know  that  Eden  could  not  have  had  a  sweeter 

mate 
Than  this  Southwestern  corner  of  our  beloved  Golden  State. 


EVENING  IN  CALIFORNIA 

I  am  gazing  entranced  at  a  beautiful  sight, 
As  it  throws  o'er  the  valley  a  soft  amber  light, 
Over  the  mountains  covered  with  snow, 
Over  the  ridges  and  valleys  below. 
It  throws  its  rays,  in  a  mellow  gleam, 
Down  on  a  bright  and  sparkling  stream. 
That  creeps  by  so  lovingly,  peaceful  and  still, 
As  it  glides  from  the  heart  of  the  valley  and  hill. 

Stray  thoughts — be  thou  quiet, 

Yea,  be'st  thou  still, 
For  the  moon  is  now  rising, 

Just  over  the  hill. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  175 

The  sky  it  is  cloudless,  the  moon  is  all  gold, 

And  seems  to  be  laughing  at  the  scene  she  beholds. 

Out  in  the  sky,  with  a  shimmering  light, 

She  throws  her  radiance  into  the  night. 

Down  on  the  oaks,  large,  sturdy  and  tall, 

Down  on  the  sycamores,  willows  and  all. 

Over  the  vineyards,  whose  fruit  on  the  vine, 

Glories  a  country  where  all's  summer  time. 

How  sweet  to  be  dreaming  beneath  the  great  trees, 

And  feel  the  light  breath  of  a  midsummer  breeze ; 

How  restful  to  know  that  while  we  shall  sleep, 

The  moon  in  the  sky  watchful  vigils  will  keep. 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  PACIFIC 

Some  night, 

When  the  wind  is  terribly  strong, 

Or  a  blizzard  is  putting  everything  wrong, 

It  seems  to  you  just  like  a  song 

To  know  there's  moonlight  on  the  Pacific. 

A  moonlight  such  as  you  see  in  dreams, 
It  never  could  be  true  it  seems, 
To  float  along  on  silver  streams, 
Into  the  calm  Pacific. 

There  your  rivers  are  clogged  with  snow, 
Running  water  but  below, 
Makes  all  traveling  so 

Unlike  the  broad  Pacific. 

It  would  do  you  good  to  take  a  roam 
Apast  the  boundaries  of  your  home, 
Leave  the  winds  and  the  blizzards  terrific, 
To  see  the  moonlight  on  the  Pacific. 


176  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Estelle  Thomson 

The  editor  of  the  Land  of  Sunshine  thus  wrote:  Miss  Estelle 
Thomson,  whose  admirable  sketches  are  welcomed  by  such  critical 
judges  as  St.  Nicholas,  Harper's  and  the  Outlook,  is  a  writer  of 
charming  magazine  articles,  out-of-door  studies  full  of  the  flavor 
of  Southern  California,  but  good  literature  anywhere.  The  every- 
day poetry  of  nature  here  had  not  before  had  just  so  sympathetic 
transcription.  To  remarkably  fine  insight,  clear  and  unaffected, 
Miss  Thomson  adds  the  charm  of  a  delicately  accurate  prose  with- 
out a  waste  word  in  it,  yet  fluent  and  flexible  as  it  is  lucid. 

She  has  published  a  charming  little  volume,  "My  Paper  Kids," 
full  of  bright  and  vividly  descriptive  verse  and  prose,  from  which 
the  following  selections  are  taken. 

OUR  ORCHARDS  LAUGH 

Our  orchards  laugh  with  their  bloom  run  over ; 

A  flashing  wing  like  a  sail  cuts  the  air ; 
There's  a  faint  red  ripple  of  sweet-topped  clover, 
A  liquid  note 

From  the  songbird's  throat, 

And  a  dewdrop  shine  on  the  meadows  fair. 

There's  a  plume  and  flutter  of  forms  that  waver, 

A  fine  soft  murmur  steals  through  the  grass ; 
A  myriad  insects  hum  and  quaver ; 
While  to  and  fro, 
As  wood-nymphs  go, 

The  young  brakes  curl  where  their  footsteps  pass. 
The  morns  are  flushed  with  the  hues  of  roses ; 

The  winds,  loose-leashed,  s-s-s-p,  merrily,  tree ; 
When  the  sun  drops  down  and  daylight  closes, 
We  hear  the  beat 
Of  fairies'  feet, 
As  they  hang  the  wands  of  the  willow  tree. 

THE  ANXIOUS  MOCKING  BIRD 

There  was  once  a  mocking  bird  whose  whole  business  was 
to  sing.  No  sooner  had  he  emptied  his  musical  quiver  of  one 
set  of  ditties  than  he  began  casting  about  for  another.  His 
life  seemed  a  vast  roundelay  of  glee,  and  so  happy  was  he 
that  everybody  who  heard  him  smiled  and  felt  joy  bursting 
his  heart  almost  to  breaking.  This  one  wild  bird  on  the 
boughtop  was  friend,  confidant,  lover  and  comforter  to  all 


THE  DOME  AND  TOWER  OF  THE  CALIFORNIA  STATE  BUILDING  OVER 
THE  FINE  ARTS  BUILDING,  FROM  THE  SOUTH  GARDENS 


RUSSIA  AND  BRAZIL  BUILDING,  TOWER  AND  BELL  GABLE 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  177 

that  tiny  portion  of  the  world  that  lived  around  the  orange 
tree.  So  the  bird  fulfilled  the  mission  for  which  every  one 
of  us  is  given  our  being:  to  lift  and  etherialize  life  and  make 
its  hard  places  easier. 

In  the  land  of  the  sun  there  were  others  besides  the  mock- 
ing bird  who  thought  they  could  sing.  There  is  a  boastful 
thrasher  who  never  tires  of  his  musical  prowess ;  and  although 
he  was  very  vain  they  sang  well  together.  But  sometimes  the 
thrasher  said:  "The  time  will  come  when  the  summer  will 
be  over  and  gone.  Then  how  shall  we  be  fed?  I  have  a 
cousin,  the  thrush,  who  lives  in  a  land  they  call  the  East,  a 
land  where  at  certain  seasons  grain  and  fruit  fail  and  a  white 
sheet  known  as  'the  snow'  will  cover  the  land.  Then  birds 
would  have  a  sorry  time  were  it  not  for  the  few  crumbs  from 
the  rich  man's  table." 

The  mocking  bird  was  sore  afraid.  He  feared  hunger.  His 
palate  was  keen  as  his  song  was  gay.  How  were  his  days  to 
be  prolonged  when  plenty  was  gone  ?  How  should  he  subsist 
on  only  "crumbs?"  What  if  no  rich  man  should  let  fall 
favors  from  his  table?  His  heart  was  fainting  within  him; 
fear  almost  quenched  his  song. 

But  the  days  sped  by;  and  the  sun  shone;  and  the  green 
world  smiled ;  and  uncounted  fruits  hung  coy  or  coquetted 
and  ripened  on  bush  and  tree:  and  there  was  no  want,  and 
no  white  sheet  of  snow  covered  the  land.  All  who  gathered 
at  the  wild  banquet  board  were  riotous  with  cheer  and  the 
mocking  bird  and  the  thrasher  were  plump  to  bursting  with 
tickling  viands. 

Then  hope  came  in  a  flooding  gush  to  that  little  bird  soul. 
Why  had  he  been  so  foolish  as  to  doubt  ?  Of  what  wicked- 
ness had  he  been  guilty  ?  He  shook  through  every  feather  for 
the  sinful  thoughts  that  had  been  in  him ;  and,  when  next  he 
sang,  his  rapturous  strain  trilled  over  and  over  again  in 
ecstasy  until  those  who  heard  him  said,  as  with  one  breath: 
"That  bird  sings  plainly  'Cheer  up!  Cheer  up!  Let  not 
your  heart  be  troubled.'  >: 

And  there  was  not  a  glad  one  nor  a  sorry  one  in  all  that 
spot  about  the  orange  tree  who  did  not  take  to  himself  the 
wild  bird's  message :  "Cheer  up !  Cheer  up !  Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled." 


178  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Li  la  Munroe  Taint  er 

Mrs.  Tainter  has  written  both  prose  and  verse  from  childhood, 
and  has  received  kindly  notice  from  critics  of  the  press,  her  poems 
having  been  copied  in  leading  journals.  In  early  years  Richard 
Henry  Stoddard  and  Captain  Hamilton  Gibson  were  greatly  inter- 
ested in  her  work,  and  gave  her  much  encouragement.  She  has 
been  a  contributor  to  magazines  and  newspapers  for  a  number  of 
years  in  both  prose  and  poetry. 

In  1915  a  collection  of  her  poems  was  made  entitled  "A  Caravel 
of  Dreams."  It  was  published  by  Sherman,  French  &  Co.,  Boston. 
She  has  another  book  in  preparation.  She  was  for  many  years  a 
resident  of  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  came  to  San  Diego  from  that  city. 

SISTERS 

Your  name  is  Mary,  mine  is  Magdalene  ; 

You  tread  the  road  to  heaven  and  I  to  hell; 
But  why  your  life  is  pure  and  mine  unclean, 

The  Power  that  made  us  both  alone  can  tell. 

Our  spirits,  dwelling  in  primordial  flame, 
Together  burned  in  space,  nor  evil  knew, 

Until  by  unknown  force  we  hither  came, 
And  I  a  garret  found — a  palace,  you  . 

The  same  hot  blood  flows  in  the  veins  of  each ; 

In  both,  primeval  instincts  seethe  and  glow. 
In  me  they  make  a  sinner  beyond  reach ; 

In  you  they  smolder  'neath  convention's  snow. 

Your  chaste  young  breast  is  not  more  fair  than  this, 

A  pillow  for  desire-sated  sleep ; 
My  mouth  is  stained  by  many  a  wanton  kiss, 

While  yours  its  flower-like  purity  may  keep. 

O  Destiny,  thou  cruel  and  unjust, 

Why  to  the  helpless  issue  such  decrees, 
That  yield  some  lips  to  love  and  some  to  lust, 

Give  some  the  wine  of  life  and  some  the  lees  ? 

Within  my  awful  charnel-house  in  vain 

I  strive  'gainst  fetters  of  heredity. 
Shall  I  no  more  my  lost  estate  regain 

When  fleshly  gyves  my  blighted  soul  set  free  ? 

From  "A  Caravel  of  Dreams,"  by  permission  of  Sherman,  French 
&  Co. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  179 

George  Whiteley  Taylor 

AN  ELEGY  OF  OLD  TOWN 
(San  Diego,  California) 

Soft  night ;  so  tranquil  is  the  earth  and  sky ; 
The  encircling  hills  in  light  and  shadow  lie. 

The  quiet  moon  floats  o'er  the  mirror  sea. 

The  village  lights  are  dimming  one  by  one 

And  leave  my  world  to  dreamy  reverie. 

Upon  these  hillsides  truth  and  romance  meet, 

Fantastic  shadows  pass  me  at  their  feet. 
And  thought  here  with  emotion  riots  free  ; 
Knits  tapestries  of  pictures  dark  or  bright, 
As  history's  figures  flit  through  memory. 

In  sheen  and  glitter  of  his  armor  clad, 
With  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war  gone  mad, 
With  beat  of  drum  the  Peace  of  God  to  mar, 
To  plant  usurping  standards  in  the  sand, 
Comes  gay,  marauding  militar. 

Or  milder  music  swells  on  passing  breeze, 

Its  lilting  cadenced  by  the  swaying  trees, 
In  rhythmic  time  to  measured  dip  of  oar, 
His  light  barge  skirting  close  the  pebbled  shore, 
Comes  brightly-turbaned  troubadour. 

At  signal  from  her  pirate-lover's  ship, 

To  keep  her  secret  tryst  in  sea-wrought  crypt, 

An  Indian  maid  from  reed-built  bower, 

O'er  tide-washed  flights  of  sandy  stair, 

Comes  stealing  at  this  lonely  hour. 

But  more;  another  spirit  yet  my  memory  thrills. 
Of  those  who  peopled  once  these  sun-burned  hills. 

I  linger  near  his  cross  and  share  his  pain, 

The  glory  of  this  goodly  earth  to  lose — 

Oh,  penance  harsh — a  heaven  to  gain. 


180  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

A  hooded  monk  with  crucifix  and  beads. 

No  'frighting  host  of  warriors  bold  he  leads. 

But  stealing  lone  from  tule-thatched  village  nigh, 
He  trudging  climbs  and  chants  his  litanies, 
Imploring  heaven  these  may  not  die. 

This,  Serra,  was  thy  Mount  of  Calvary, 

And  up  its  steep,  wearing  God's  livery, 

Bearing  thy  cross  of  mortal  pain  and  mental  agony, 
With  cold,  unsandaled,  bleeding  feet, 
Thou  entered  thy  Gethsemane. 

At  morning  grey  I  see  a  ship  to  anchor  swing, 
Aud  furl  her  sail,  like  tired  bird  her  wing. 

A  boat  is  lowered  from  the  galleon's  rail 

And  to  the  haven  draweth  in 

With  shout  and  answering  hail. 

God's  benison  and  answer  to  thy  plea, 
When  none  would  watch  an  hour  with  thee. 

Here's  succor  for  a  starving,  faithless  band. 

Here's  news  of  home  and  friends — in  troth 

The  outreach  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

'Tis  such  high  faith  as  thine  that  saves  the  day. 
When  lesser  souls  have  ceased  to  watch  or  pray, 

Sees  through  the  night  by  faith's  unclouded  ray 

And  lifts  us  to  the  mountain  heights 

Where  God's  lights  play. 

And  bowing,  'neath  this  ancient-planted  palm 
And  olive  trees  that  breathe  devotion's  calm, 
Here,  by  this  mountain-mirroring  bay, 
Whose  floor  tonight  soft  moonlight  fills — 
Here  "Let  us  pray!" 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  181 


Bertha  Bliss  Tyler 


Bertha  Bliss  Tyler  is  a  native  of  New  York  State,  having 
obtained  her  early  education  and  diploma  from  Mynderse  Academy, 
Seneca  Falls,  New  York.  Later  she  studied  music  in  Hartford, 
Connecticut,  with  a  pupil  of  Moscheles,  of  Paris,  after  which  she 
returned  to  her  native  place^  and  taught  piano,  until,  as  an  invalid, 
she  went  into  the  Adirondack  Mountains  of  northern  New  York, 
where  she  resided  several  years.  During  this  period  she  wrote 
"Adirondack  Sketches,"  including  a  number  of  poems,  showing  her 
love  of  nature,  and  her  power  of  description. 

In  1913  she  left  Boston  for  San  Diego,  taking  the  ocean  voyage 
to  Galveston.  The  literary  atmosphere  of  San  Diego,  together  with 
studies  in  versification  and  journalistic  writing  with  Grace  Duffie 
Boylan,  poet,  author  and  journalist,  late  of  the  Chicago  Journal, 
became  a  stimulus  to  greater  literary  effort,  which  has  resulted 
in  the  following  publications:  "Evening:  Panama-California  Expo- 
sition," "Paean  of  Peace,"  "Cordial  Greetings,"  "Some  Merry  Little 
Men,"  and  "Christmas  in  the  Hills,"  taken  from  "Adirondack 
Sketches." 

Under  a  nom  de  plume  she  has  written  a  series  of  love  poems, 
and  also  one  in  lighter  vein,  written  in  earlier  years,  called  "When 
Mary  Looks  at  Me."  Her  latest  style  and  development  is  found  in 
her  recent  publications,  "The  Star  of  Christmas  Morn,"  and  "At 
Christmas  Time." 


WHEN  MARY  LOOKS  AT  ME 

My  heart  within  me  gives  one  bound, 
And  in  love's  raging  sea  I'm  drowned, 
When  Mary  looks  at  me. 

My  reason  to  itself  takes  wings, 
I  say  a  thousand  foolish  things, 
When  Mary  looks  at  me. 

My  soul  goes  quickly  out  of  this, 
Transported  to  a  world  of  bliss, 
When  Mary  looks  at  me. 

"Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer," 
I  feel  a  benediction  rare, 

When  Mary  looks  at  me. 

To  you  alone  the  truth  I'll  tell: 
My  happiness  is  measured  well, 
When  Mary  looks  at  me. 


182  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

THY  LOVE 

Beloved,  what  our  harbor  of  the  sun 

Is  to  the  craft  upon  the  ocean  tossed, 
A  haven's  rest  when  tempest-course  is  run, 

Art  thou  to  me;  when  worldling's  depths  are  crossed 
I  come  unto  the  bosom  of  thy  love 

Serene  with  truth,  and  calm  beyond  compare 
With  hope's  own  peace,  and  e'er  above 

The  brightness  of  thy  sun  of  joy  to  share, 
To  bask  in  it,  rejoice,  and  rest  content 
In  all  its  warmth  and  light  full  heaven-sent. 

WHAT  CONSTITUTES  GINGER  CORDIAL* 

Many  different  notions  there  are  about  good  coffee.  The 
believer  in  stimulants  calls  good  that  brewing  having  strength 
sufficient  for  his  purpose;  the  epicurean  demands  richness  in 
the  beverage  and  its  trimmings;  the  fastidious  man  seeks  the 
freshness  and  daintiness  of  the  cup  quickly  brewed  and 
served ;  and  the  healthseeker  raises  his  cup  of  cereal  coffee. 

But  the  man  of  larger  appetite  finds  his  loving-cup  over- 
flowing with  the  following  draught : 

Add  seven  grains  of  mirth  to  seven  quarts  of 
common  sense,  and  let  stand  over  night  until  thoroughly 
blended.  In  the  morning,  add  seven  gills  of  effervescing  love- 
for-all-mankind,  and  you  will  have  a  stimulant  always  ready 
to  support  the  weak  and  tempt  the  strong. 

EVENINGf 

(Panama-California  Exposition) 
A  tribute  to  John  Vance  Cheney,  World-Poet,  San  Diegan. 

It  is  late  afternoon  in  the  Plaza  de  Panama  of  the  Exposi- 
tion Grounds.  The  crowds  have  scattered ;  the  immense  area 
of  the  Plaza  is  emptied  of  all  but  a  few  lingering  pedestrians, 
and  those  who  fill  the  benches  at  its  sides.  The  hundreds  of 
doves  have  gone  to  their  rest,  a  few  only  leisurely  fluttering 


*Copyright,  1915,  by  Bertha  Bliss  Tyler. 
fCopyright,  1916,  by  Bertha  Bliss  Tyler. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  183 

back  and  forth  from  floor  to  tower.    It  is  the  "pale,  delaying 
hour,"  when  "whoso  seeks  them  here  .  .  . 

Shall  make  their  own  the  hymn  of  rest  begun 
When  the  shadows  say  the  summer  day  is  done ;" 
.  .  .  "the  psalm  of  peace,  suffusing  sweet 
Ineffable,  fallen  on  the  twilight  hush." 

Nor  unlike  this  softness  of  light  is  that  from  the  ceilings 
of  all  the  corridors.  These  unseen  lights  from  the  exquisitely 
delicate  salmon  pink  chandeliers  are  in  satisfying  contrast  to 
the  whiteness  of  the  buildings. 

Pictures  they  are:  Each  Mission  Arch  as  seen  from  the 
corridors  framing  artistic  groups  and  masses  of  shrubbery  and 
vines  and  blossoms,  while  the  "light  leaves"  shake  "with 
winds  feeling  along  their  evening  way." 

It  is  six  o'clock  when  the  Exposition  Band  breaks  the 
reveries  of  the  quiet  assemblage  with  its  rhythmic  strains, 
startling  the  ears  with  joy  in  its  swelling  harmonies.  For  a 
half-hour  the  rich,  full-toned  music  fills  the  Plaza.  Imme- 
diately the  lights  appear  from  all  the  pedestals  placed  regu- 
larly between  the  acacia  trees — as  regular  and  symmetrical  as 
the  uniformly  trimmed  trees.  About  fifteen  feet  in  height 
are  these  bronze  pedestals,  surmounted  by  oval  opaque  closed 
globes — the  lights  bringing  out  the  beauty  of  the  trees  and  the 
trees  shadowing  the  lights,  a  mingled  glory  of  light  and  shade. 

Between  the  Fine  Arts  Building  and  the  Arts  and  Crafts 
Building  lie  the  Gardens  at  the  entrance  to  the  pergola,  with 
their  artistic  stone  benches,  where  one  lingers  in  the  quiet 
beauty  of  light,  and  deepening  shades,  and  blossoms,  and 
fragrance, — "rich  as  at  eve  the  honeysuckle  lends," — per- 
chance to  rejoice  with  the  snail  in  his  lordly  hour  of  unob- 
structed traversing  across  the  garden  paths  and  back  again, 
his  course  marked  by  a  silver  shining  trail ;  and  perchance  to 
rest  in  a  sweet  reluctance  to  enter  the  paths  of  the  crowning 
beauty  of  an  Exposition  Evening — the  Pergolas. 

Upon  entering  the  Pergolas  the  marvelous  balancing  of 
light  and  shade,  so  characteristic  of  all  the  lighting  of  the 
Exposition  Grounds,  is  nowhere  more  apparent.  In  the  nar- 
row path  leading  to  the  Lower  Pergola  one  is  conscious  of 
an  unveiling  of  Nature's  hidden  beauties.  The  very  trees 


184  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

crowd  close  in  tender,  embracing  greeting;  every  leaf  has  its 
radiant  perfection  in  the  white  light  of  the  electric  sentinels ; 
while  here  and  there,  nodding  and  swaying  gently  in  the 
evening  breeze,  dainty  sprays  of  acacia  trees  screen  the  lights. 

The  Lower  Pergola  is  reached,  a  corridor  with  heavy, 
vine-encircled  pillars,  rich  in  reddish  bronze  foliage;  and 
trellised  roof,  of  trailing  vines,  dotted  with  innumerable 
opaque  globes  of  light, — tiny  stars  in  "greenest  leafage."  One 
can  only  enter  and  accept  spontaneously  the  gracious  invita- 
tion of  the  first  green  bench.  From  across  the  depths  of  the 
dark  wooded  canyon  at  the  side,  "a  little  wind  at  the  wood's 
edge  plays,"  unlocking  the  little  shoots  and  tendrils  of  the 
pillar-encircling  vines,  like  stray  locks  of  curly  hair  enhanc- 
ing the  beauty  of  a  charming  face. 

Beyond  the  Pergola  lay  the  circling  path,  edging  the  rise  of 
the  velvety  sward : — 

"Yon  grass — there,  too,  I  see 
Suspicious  gallantry: 
Each  spear  unto  his  sweeting 
Whispers  a  secret  greeting." 

Passing  the  way  to  the  Palm  Jungle,  and  returning  to  the 
long,  wide  Upper  Pergola,  the  circling  path  ends,  where  it 
began,  in  the  Entrance  Gardens,  where  "leaf  on  leaf  the  cool 
trees  droop  in  sleep." 

"Who  listens  well  hears  Nature  on  her  round, 
When  least  she  thinks  it ;  bird  and  bough  and  stream 
Not  only,  but  her  silences  profound, 
Surprised  by  nicer  cunning  of  his  dream." 

SOME  MERRY  LITTLE  MENf 

Some  merry  little  men 

Had  a  merry  little  Day, 
Because  the  dear  old  Santa 

Had  a  merry  little  way 


fBertha  Bliss  Tyler.     Copyright,  1915. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  185 

Of  placing  in  their  stockings 

Just  the  things  that  give  them  joy: 
Some  candy,  nuts  and  raisins, 

And  besides  the  dearest  toy 
Like  a  beetle,  big  and  shiny, 

And  with  wings  that  flap,  flap,  flap, 
When  he  runs  across  the  table, 

Just  to  make  us  clap,  clap,  clap. 
And  then  he  brought  them  pictures 

And  story-books  and  balls  ; 
And  then,  to  keep  them  tidy, 

He  brought  them  "Koveralls." 
Now  these  merry  little  men, 

On  this  merry  little  Day, 
Because  the  dear  old  Santa, 

In  his  merry  little  way, 
Had  been  to  them  so  loving, 

So  good  and  tender,  too, 
Just  thought  they'd  be  like  Santa 

And  be  good  the  whole  year  through, 
And  be  merry,  just  as  merry, 

And  happy  every  day, 
As  the  merry,  happy  Santa 

In  his  merry  little  way. 


Elsie  Jewett  Webster 

Mrs.  Webster  was  born  in  Missouri,  where  she  received  a  com- 
mon school  and  some  high  school  education.  When  she  was  sixteen 
her  family  moved  to  Kansas,  where  she  had  more  schooling.  There 
she  met  Grant  M.  Webster,  to  whom  she  was  married.  For  a  while 
the  couple  lived  in  New  Mexico  and  then  came  to  California,  first 
to  San  Bernardino;  in  1910,  to  San  Diego.  Her  father,  Dr.  John  J. 
Jewett,  was  both  newspaper  editor  and  writer  of  poems,  and  his 
daughter  thus  naturally  has  the  poetic  instinct.  Being  interested  in 
all  matters  of  social  reform,  many  of  Mrs.  Webster's  poems  natur- 
ally are  full  of  the  spirit  of  human  brotherhood  and  militant 
democracy. 


186  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

LOVE'S  QUESTIONING 

I  wonder  in  what  other  life  than  this 

My  heart  hath  recognized  and  crowned  thee  king. 
I  wonder  in  what  realm  of  pain  or  bliss, 

My  soul  hath  flown  to  thee  on  quickened  wing. 

My  love  for  thee  is  all  too  great,  it  seems, 

To  gather  in  this  little  span  of  days. 
More  sure  that  flitting  fancy's  fairy  dreams, 

We  fared  together  in  far  other  ways. 

How  could  my  heart  so  quickly  call  to  thine, 

And  lay  its  dearest  treasures  at  thy  feet, 
Had  I  not  made,  in  some  past  life  of  mine, 

By  loving  thee,  some  preparation  sweet? 

Does  no  voice  call  thee  love  thro'  all  the  distance  ? 

Does  no  fair  ghost  before  thy  vision  rise, 
Revealing  to  thy  soul  that  old  existence, 

And  whispering  to  thine  ear:     "Love  never  dies?" 

From  Time's  beginning  I  have  loved  thee,  dear, 
Thro'  all  the  countless  ages  that  have  flown. 

In  all  our  dreamy  life  times,  far  or  near, 
My  heart  has  gladly  echoed  to  thine  own. 

And  will  this  fair  love-light  burn  low  at  last, 
And  all  this  passion's  flame  that  warms  my  world  ? 

When  silence  comes  and  Earth  and  Now  are  past, 
Will  this  uplifted  torch  away  be  hurled  ? 

What  mean  these  dream-shaped  memories,  this  future  hope? 

This  white  mist  rolling  in  from  Time's  great  sea, 
Inwrapped  in  which  we  stumble,  strive  and  grope 

Toward  some  full  sunlight  of  eternity  ? 

Will  we  see  face  to  face  in  some  clear  shining  ? 

Will  a  tomorrow  bring  us  love  again  ? 
Is  there  no  meaning  in  the  soul's  divining 

Of  a  warm,  pulsing  past  of  love  and  pain  ? 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  187 

I  cannot  answer  and  you  cannot  tell  me : 

We  wander  mist-enshrouded,  with  no  ray. 
But  fleeting  dreams  and  hope  and  life  impel  me 

To  cry:    "Come,  live  and  love,  we  have  today." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  OPEN  AIR 

The  wind  in  the  tree  top  calls  to  me, 
"Come  out  in  the  open,  come  and  be  free." 

The  sun  on  the  hillside  laughs  in  glee, 

And  dances  and  beckons :     "Come,  play  with  me." 

The  rainbow  waves  sing  clear  to  me, 

"Come,  chant  with  us  the  song  of  the  sea." 

I  serve  in  the  restless  marts  of  trade, 
Where  men  walk  warily  and  afraid. 

I  dwell  in  a  house  that  is  made  with  hands, 
That  left  their  weariness  on  its  plans. 

I  have  known  of  love,  of  sorrow,  of  sin, 
Of  the  daily  stress  and  the  battle's  din. 

I  have  felt  Life's  heat  and  its  biting  cold, 
And  my  soul  is  old  as  Time  is  old. 

I  have  drained  life's  lies  and  drank  its  truth, 
And  my  heart  still  answers  the  cry  of  youth. 

The  wind  in  the  tree  top  calls  to  me : 
"Come  out  in  the  open,  come  and  be  free." 

And  the  sun  on  the  hillside  laughs  in  glee, 

And  dances  and  beckons:     "Come,  play  with  me." 


188  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

"LOOSE  HIM  AND  LET  HIM  GO"— John  11:44 

Loose  him  and  let  him  go. 
Take  from  his  head  the  many  folds 

Of  mildewed  superstitions.     Unbind 
His  forehead,  let  Today  shine  on  it. 
Take  off  the  grave  mould  of  old  yesterdays, 
Thick  grown  and  smothering,  from  his  face. 
Unwind  the  wrappings  from  that  stiffened  jaw 
And  the  choked  throat,  that  he  may  speak — 
May  voice  the  hungry  cry  of  human  kind 
For  Life,  more  Life,  abundant  Life. 

Tear  from  his  shackeled  hands  the  folds 
Of  long  dead  ordinances,  mouldy  laws, 
That  bind  the  muscles  so  the  frozen  clutch 
Is  ever  on  the  dead.     Let  loose  those  hands 
To  grasp  the  things  he  did  create 
To  build  his  life.     Unwrap  his  lungs, 
That  he  may  draw  free  air  in  deeper  breaths, 
That  these  pale  hands,  benumbed  and  cold, 
May  fill  and  flush  with  influx  of  new  blood, 
And  reach  to  grasp  Desire.     Set  free 
The  heart  to  throb  in  harmony 
With  hearts  that  live  and  beat,  attuned 
To  Liberty's  glad  music.    Take  off 
The  shrouding  grave  clothes  of  a  soul, 
Throw  back  into  the  tomb  the  binding  rags 
Of  dead  beliefs,  but  let  the  Man  come  forth, 
To  all  the  fullness  of  his  heritage. 

Loose  him  and  let  him  go.    Tho'  dark, 
Blood-stained  and  rough  the  way  he  walks, 
Yet  always  will  his  face  be  to  the  sky. 
Loose  him  and  let  him  go.    Give  him  the  Earth, 
And  he  will  find  his  own  way  to  the  Sun. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  189 

I  WOULD  THAT  MEN  WERE  FREE 

I  would  that  men  were  free ; 
That  not  one  man  in  all  the  world 
Had  need  to  beg  of  any  other  man 
The  opportunity  for  toil  to  earn  his  bread. 
That  not  again  while  we  count  time  or  dream  of  heaven 
Need  any  man  go  to  a  brother  man  and  say : 
"Give  me  of  toil.     No  matter  what  the  kind, 
How  long  the  dragging  hours  I  work  at  it, 
How  weary  are  my  limbs,  how  spent  my  strength 
When  night  comes  down,  I  must  have  work. 
I  beg  of  you  for  work.     My  wife  is  hungry 
And  my  children  weep  unclothed." 

And  while  the  beggar  stands  with  hanging  head 
And  hard  hands  knotted  in  a  clasp  of  pain, 
The  other  twirls  an  idle  thumb  and  with 
Offensive  look  talks  glibly  of  a  wage, 
Or  dickers  meanly  for  a  few  pence  less; 
Then  gives  the  man  a  chance  to  toil  for  him 
For  just  enough  to  keep  life  creeping  on 
With  scarce  the  boon  of  hope ;  a  death  in  life. 
And  often  not  the  chance  to  be  a  slave 
And  create  wealth  unto  a  master's  hand 
Is  given,  but  a  careless  shoulder  shrug, 
And  "I  have  nothing  for  you."     This  the  word 
That  many  a  desperate  pleader  hears  for  all  his  prayer. 

I  would  that  never  while  Time  kept  his  pace 
Any  woman  full  of  the  will  to  live, 
Pulsing  with  joy  of  youth  and  dreams  and  hope, 
Had  ever  need  to  sell  herself  for  bread. 
Either  her  body  for  man's  lust,  or  her  hand's  work, 
Her  youth,  her  splendid  energy,  her  opportunity 


190  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

For  happy  wifehood  or  for  motherhood, 
The  chance  to  mold  her  own  life  her  own  way, 
Or  any  form  of  her  diviner  self 
Bartered  for  food  to  keep  her  body's  life. 

We  sell  our  men  and  women  in  the  marts, 
We  drown  our  arts  in  fierce  commercialism, 
Our  music  in  the  clatter  of  a  coin, 
Our  poetry  in  mad  pursuit  of  gain, 
Our  souls  in  weary  chase  for  futile  toys. 
We  wrap  our  honor  and  our  justice  in  a  flag 
And  bury  them  'neath  mounds  of  empty  words 
Chanted  by  politicians  cadenced  tongues, 
Then  wonder  life  seems  dead  and  souls  expressionless. 

What  genius  buried  in  our  refuse  heaps. 
What  pictures,  poems,  statutes  lie  beneath 
The  debris  of  our  heaped  up  wastefulness. 
How  have  we  sent  our  songsbirds  to  this  pile, 
And  tossed  our  painters  there  daubed  with  their  blood. 
And  torn  the  music  of  our  poet's  songs 
To  kindle  fires  of  lust  that  burn  us  out. 

I  would  that  men  were  free  to  be  the  best: 
To  give  unto  men's  hearts  the  shining  dreams 
That,  come  in  childhood  and  the  years  blot  out, 
As  hopeless  poverty  or  glutted  wealth 
Close  on  the  vision.     Only  men 
Who  have  been  free  to  dream  can  send  forth  sons 
Who  will  be  true.     And  only  women  who 
Have  held  their  bodies  free  from  sale  for  lust, 
To  share  with  Love  his  Holy  Place,  can  bring  forth  daughters 
Who  can  sing  the  rhythmic  song  of  chastity. 

That  men  be  free !  that  is  the  dream  of  ages, 
And  the  passion  that  creates  the  stars  and  sends  them  forth. 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  191 

Marguerite  Wilkinson 

Marguerite  Wilkinson  was  born  in  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia,  in 
1884,  daughter  of  Nathan  Kellogg  Bigelow.  She  was  educated  at 
Evanston  High  School,  111.,  Northwestern  University,  and  the 
Misses  Ely's  School  when  it  was  in  New  York  City. 

Her  first  serious  and  effective  verse  was  accepted  by  Dr.  Wil- 
liam Hayes  Ward,  for  the  New  Yorkjndependent,  and  she  has  been 
an  occasional  contributor  to  it  ever  since. 

Mrs.  Wilkinson  was  editor  of  the  Poetry  Page  of  the  Los 
Angeles  Graphic;  and  of  her  work  in  this  connection,  the  editor, 
Samuel  T.  Clover  (now  editor  of  the  Richmond,  Va.,  Evening 
Journal}^  wrote: 

"As  a  critical  and  analytical  writer,  Mrs.  Wilkinson  has  distinct 
power.  Her  feature  articles  for  the  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  under 
my  administration — which  publication  paid  great  attention  to  belles 
lettres — attracted  national  interest,  as  they  deserved,  for  her  pur- 
view was  countrywide.  Mrs.  Wilkinson's  pungent  yet  sympathetic 
reviews  of  new  volumes  of  poetry  were  particularly  noteworthy. 
She  is  a  poet  herself  and  of  no  ordinary  caliber.  Anything  from 
her  pen  always  commands  place  in  the  best  publications  in  the 
country." 

She  is  also  author  of  "In  Vivid  Gardens,"  "By  a  Western  Way- 
side" and  "The  Passing  of  Mars."  She  is  a  member  of  the  Poetry 
Society  of  America  and  of  the  Authors'  League  of  America.  Her 
contributions  have  appeared  in  all  the  leading  magazines,  East  and 
West,  and  she  is  now  editor  of  the  poetry  pages  in  Books  and  Au- 
thors, published  monthly  in  New  York,  contributes  a  weekly  literary 
letter  to  The  Evening  Journal,  of  Richmond,  Va.,  and  has  a  vol- 
ume— "Anthology  of  California  Verse" — soon  to  be  published. 


CORONADO  SKETCHES 

THE  FOG  THAT  COMES  IN  AT  NIGHT 

A  little  while  ago  the  sky  was  clear, 
A  wild  blue  wine  for  our  young  eyes  to  drink, 
A  wine  in  which  the  stars  were  jolly  bubbles, 
Poised,  sparkling  in  the  depths. 

But  while  we  looked 
A  milky  cloud  flooded  the  splendid  cup 
And  hid  the  bubble  stars  and  made  opaque 
That  which  our  eyes  were  drinking. 

But  our  spirits 
Drank  yet  more  deep  of  a  wonder  yet  more  dear ! 


192  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

A  NIGHT  ON  THE  BEACH 

Where  beach  verbenas  lay  their  little  cold  leaves 
Upon  dry  sand,  and  lift  their  sticky-wet  blossoms 
Pale  purple  in  the  dawn,  and  where  the  primrose 
With  healthy  golden  passion  fights  the  tides 
For  space  in  which  to  flaunt  her  echoed  sunlight, 
There,  after  hours  upon  the  tossing  waters, 
We  spread  our  blankets  and  lay  down  to  rest. 
And  there  we  met  and  knew  the  blessed  Night, 
Who  is  the  mother  of  Peace.  And  there  we  found 
The  Morning,  in  whose  womb  was  Joy  conceived. 

FULFILLMENT— A  BRIDE'S  PSALM  OF  JOY 

The  graybeards  had  compassion  on  me  in  my  day  of  rejoicing, 

For  they  said,  "She  does  not  know." 

The  snowy  crowned  old  women  shook  tears  from  their  eyes, 

For  they  said,  "She  is  innocent." 

The  young  men  and  women  who  had  gone  on  before  me 

smiled  wistfully, 

For  they  said,  "She  also  is  young." 
Even  the  cynics  advised  me, 

For  they  thought  I  was  about  to  go  the  way  of  all  flesh. 
One  and  all,  they  saw  my  bud  blasted  and  my  sunlight 

shadowed, 
My  dream  routed,  my  vision  eclipsed,  giving  place  to  merely 

practical  satisfaction  ; 
They  saw  my  soul  besmirched,  perhaps  destroyed. 

They  warned  me  of  disappointment  that  I  might  not  be 

disappointed ; 

Of  sadness,  that  I  might  not  be  too  often  sad  ; 
Of  pain,  that  I  might  not  suffer  too  deeply ; 
Of  the  carnal,  that  I  might  be  able,  perchance,  to  save  a 

partial  soul  alive. 

Tears  they  tried  to  pour  into  my  cup  of  rapture, 
That  a  wonted  taste  might  give  no  shock  of  bitterness. 
They  would  have  girded  my  waist  with  fire,  in  all  kindliness, 
That  I  might  feel  the  less  the  brand  of  ruthless  desire: 


EAST  FACADE,  RUSSIA  AND  BRAZIL  BUILDING 


ONE  OF  THE  PERGOLAS 


JUANITA  MILLER,  IN  ONE  OF  HER  CLASSIC  DANCES 


SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  193 

For  they  said :    "There  is  somewhat  of  crape  beneath  every 
wedding  veil." 

All  this,  because  they  loved  me.     And  yet  I  went  on  my  way 

heedless  and  confident. 
Heedless  of  compassions  and  advice,  confident  that  the 

warnings  were  vain ; 
Nourishing  in  my  heart  the  bud  of  promise,  warm  with 

sunlight, 

Refusing  the  tears  and  the  firebrand; 
For  I  had  faith  in  the  hands  that  held  me,  in  the  eyes  that 

met  mine, 

In  the  proud  pledge  of  his  mind,  in  the  beauty  of  his  spirit — 
Thus  I  went  on  my  way. 

In  the  evening  I  slept,  and  in  the  morning  I  awoke  and 

knocked  at  the  door  of  my  soul,  demanding  entrance. 
And  I  asked,  "What  cheer,  O  Soul? 
What  of  the  hour  of  knowledge  ? 
What  of  the  day  of  fulfillment?" 

Then  my  soul  arose  and  stood  before  me,  naked  and  fearless, 
And  answered  me  proudly : 
"Open  the  windows  that  the  old  men  and  women  may  look 

in  and  see  my  sunlight ! 
Open  the  windows  that  the  young  men  and  women  may  catch 

the  scent  of  my  perfect  blossom ! 
Open  the  windows  that  the  music  of  my  joy  may  go  out 

to  confound  the  cynics ! 

Tell  them  that  I  am  not  saddened,  neither  am  I  disappointed. 
No,  not  for  a  fraction  of  time. 

Show  them  that  there  is  no  suffering  for  me,  save  gladness ; 
That  I  am  not  at  war  with  the  flesh,  nor  is  the  flesh  divided 

from  me  against  me. 

Lo,  I  am  whole,  sane,  sound,  more  glorious  than  before, 
For  my  dream  is  become  actuality, 
My  vision  is  become  fulfillment, 
My  ideal  is  become  as  God ;  He  mounts  His  throne  and 

reigns. 
For  me  there  are  no  tears,  there  is  no  brand  of  fire!" 


194  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Maribel  Yates 

The  writing  of  Mrs.  E.  N.  Yates  covers  an  intermittent  period 
of  more  than  fifteen  years,  and  ranges  from  newspaper  contributions, 
chiefly  to  the  Kansas  City  Journal,  in  the  earlier  years,  through 
the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  the  Kansas  Magazine  and  various 
farming  journals  and  other  periodicals,  to  the  present  time.  She  is 
a  regular  contributor  of  both  prose  and  verse  to  a  prominent  church 
publication,  and  is  represented  in  the  first  volume  of  "American 
Poets,"  published  by  the  McLean  Publishing  Company  of  Baltimore, 
Maryland.  She  now  has  material  for  two  volumes  which  have 
been  editorially  approved  and  recommended  for  independent  pub- 
lication in  the  near  future. 

IN  AFTER  YEARS 

Whence  comes  this  Shape  which  haunts  my  path !     Its  glance 

allures,  but  yet  repels ; 
It   seems    familiar,    yet   unknown;    like    strains    forgot,    or 

Dreamland  spells. 
Its  drap'ries  float  like  foamy  mist,  but  hold  within  a  lurid 

glow. 
Avaunt  ye,  Shape !    I  like  ye  not.     Why  dost  thou  taunt  and 

mock  me  so  ? 
Ye  'mind  me,  vaguely,  of  those  years  of  foolish  youth,  ere 

fancy  tired. 
The  Vision  smiled:     "I  am  the  phantom  of  those  joys  thy 

youth  desired !" 

Whence  come  ye,  lovely  bloom,  to  sway  thy  golden  censer  at 

my  door? 

I  know  ye  not ;  and  yet  I  feel  that  I  have  met  thee  oft  before. 
Abide  ye,  alway,  for  ye  bring  a  tender  sadness,  strangely 

sweet — 
More  sweet  than  mirth.     For  many  years  I  followed  Joy 

with  eager  feet 
And  found  but  Grief!    The  Vision  smiled,  and  said :    "Thou 

shalt  be  joyous  yet ; 
I  am  the  fragrant  flow'r  which  springs  from  disappointment, 

bravely  met." 


CHAPTER  VI 
GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES  DAY 

By  Bertha  Bliss  Tyler 

In  Dr.  James's  original  plan  as  agreed  to  by  the  Exposi- 
tion officials  there  was  no  suggestion  made  of  a  day  for  him- 
self. But  as  the  work  of  the  Literature  Class  progressed, 
and  more  Authors'  Days  were  held,  a  desire  was  soon 
expressed  by  both  members  of  the  Class  and  the  various 
audiences  that  it  would  be  altogether  inappropriate  to  fail  to 
devote  a  day  to  the  honor  of  Dr.  James  himself.  The  Expo- 
sition Directors  themselves  fostered  this  sentiment.  They 
called  attention  to  the  many  occasions  on  which  he  had  acted 
as  the  orator  of  the  Exposition,  in  giving  highly  specialized 
addresses,  as  on  Olive  Day,  Junipero  Serra  Day,  Hawaii 
Day,  Bird  Box  Day,  Bunker  Hill  Day,  National  Peace  Day, 
Audubon  Day,  etc.,  and  expressed  themselves  as  desirous  that 
a  day  should  be  set  apart  in  his  honor.  Dr.  James,  however, 
always  laughed  at  the  suggestion  and  refused  to  entertain  it. 
At  last,  however,  a  few  prominent  members  of  the  Literature 
Class,  realizing  what  he  had  done  for  them  and  the  Expo- 
sition and  community  through  his  California  Literature, 
Browning,  Tagore,  and  other  lectures,  and  also  by  inaugur- 
ating and  successfully  conducting  the  California  Authors* 
Days,  took  the  matter  up  with  the  officials  with  the  result 
that  they  not  only  set  apart  December  27  as  George  Whar- 
ton  James  Day,  but  agreed  to  present  to  him  the  Gold  Medal 
of  the  Exposition,  as  a  token  of  the  special  services  he  had 
thus  rendered. 

This,  in  brief,  is  the  true  history  of  the  George  Wharton 
James  Day.  As  soon  as  it  was  made  known,  many  tributes 
of  appreciation,  affection  and  esteem  were  received,  some  of 
which  are  included  in  what  follows. 

The  San  Diego  Tribune  of  December  28,  1916,  thus 
opens  its  report  of  the  day  in  honor  of  the  organizer  of  the 
Literature  Class : 


196  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

"The  climax  of  interest  and  enjoyment  in  the  California 
Authors'  Days  was  reached  yesterday  in  the  celebration  of 
George  Wharton  James  day.  The  program  was  held  at  the 
organ  pavilion  at  1  p.  m.,  beginning  with  a  concert  of  grand 
opera  selections  by  Tommasino's  band. 

"On  the  organ  platform,  which  was  decorated  with  palms, 
was  placed  a  table  holding  the  bust  of  Dr.  James,  by  Miss 
Mann,  sculptor,  to  be  given  to  the  public  library.  Friends 
of  Dr.  James,  and  members  of  the  literature  class,  were 
seated  on  the  platform.  The  Rev.  Charles  E.  Spalding,  rec- 
tor of  the  Episcopal  church  of  Coronado,  presiding,  opened 
the  program  with  the  reading  of  "Love  Bouquet,"  by  Miss 
Juanita  Miller,  daughter  of  Joaquin  Miller : 

LOVE  BOUQUET 

To  you  who  drew  the  opaque  veil  of  ignorance  from  our  lives, 
Taught  us  to  see  the  light  and  so  you  showed  us  paradise: 
Then  white  for  the  souls  that  you  have  soothed  and  red  for  the 

healed  heart — 
These  flowers  that  we  are  giving  you  are  of  ourselves  a  part 

"Miss  Adelheide  Kaufmann,  bearing  a  bouquet  of  white 
carnations,  and  Miss  Celia  MacDonald,  of  Pasadena,  bearing 
a  bouquet  of  red  carnations,  then  entered,  from  each  side  of 
the  organ  presenting  the  flowers  to  Dr.  James.  Tied  to  each 
bouquet  were  messages  of  appreciation,  written  by  friends  of 
the  distinguished  litterateur,  some  of  which  were  read  by  Dr. 
Spaulding.  These  are  some  of  the  messages: 

TO  GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES: 
By  Elsie  Jewett  Webster^ 

The  Old  Franciscan  Missions  stand  guard  along  the  way, 
Like  gray  and  ghostly  sentinels  of  a  dead,  forgotten  day: 
As  Through  Ramonas  Country  we  wander  and  are  lost 
In  the  splendors  that  surround  us  and  the  wonders  of  the 

coast. 

We  talked  of  Indian  Basketry,  that  patient  Basket  Making, 
That  miracle  of  weaving  to  which  we're  just  awaking. 
Of  The  Indians  of  the  Desert,  Painted  like  the  sunset  sea, 
Of  birds  and  flowering  glories  that  beckon  you  and  me. 

fThe  names  in  italics  are  of  books  by  George  Wharton  James. 


ROSE  HARTWICK  THORPE 


MRS.   ELLA  LORINE  PALMER,  WHO  SANG  FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS' 
SONG  ON  GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES  DAY 


GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES  DAY         197 

Of  that  fair  spot  of  dreaming  where  the  pure  Lake  of  the  Sky 
Lies  like  a  burning  jewel  while  the  clouds  float  softly  by. 
Then  we  spoke  of  him  who  wove  the  threads  of  beauty  into 

words, 

The  Indians,  the  missions,  the  flowers  and  the  birds  ; 
And  dropped  the  golden  note  of  calm  into  our  troubled  strife, 
That  sung  now  "Quit  Your   Worrying''  and  "Live   the 

Radiant  Life/' 

By  Ida  Ghent  Stanford 

Dear  Dr.  James,  we  wish  you  joy, 

And  Peace  and  Happiness  sublime; 
We  pray  that  God  may  still  through  you 
His  gracious  Presence  shine; 
That  men  may  learn  the  things  worth  while 

Things  broad,  and  deep,  and  True, 
Long  may  you  live  in  perfect  health — 

Under  California's  blue. 

By  Minnie  Hardy 

Like  the  great  granite  higher  Sierras 

That  lift  their  bright  peaks  to  the  sun, 
And  shine  through  the  lowering  rain-clouds — 

Saying:   "Lord,  if  it's  rain,  let  it  come." 

Or  the  giant,  majestic  Sequoias — 

For  centuries  so  stately  and  tall — 
Reaching  out  their  great  arms  to  the  Storm-God, 

Saying,  "Lord,  if  it's  snow,  let  it  fall." 

For  sunshine  is  the  joy  of  our  life-time; 

And  rain,  like  our  tears,  make  a  part; 
And  snow  is  a  soft,  fleecy  blanket 

To  cover  some  poor  broken  heart. 

From  the  lily  and  rose  of  the  valley, 

To  the  rivers  and  rocks  far  above — 
Of  your  beauty,  oh,  great  California! 

He  has  taught  us  to  know  and  to  love. 


198  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

And  bravely  he  faces  life's  problems, — 
Like  the  sun  shining  back  on  the  range 

Is  reflected  God's  smile  of  approval, 

On  the  kind  face  of  George  Wharton  James. 

By  Elizabeth  Howard  Hyde 

You're  blessed  with  many  friends; 

All  o'er  the  world  they're  found, 
Some  wing  aloft  in  yon  blue  sky ; 

And  some  live  under  ground. 

Some  gather  with  the  great  of  earth ; 

Are  known  in  halls  of  fame. 
Some  till  the  soil  and  live  in  huts ; 

Some  you  know  not  by  name. 

With  us  who've  gathered  here  each  week 
You've  shared  your  world-gleaned  treasures,  rare — 
And  we  will  treasure  you,  in  thought, 

And  these  last  days  at  our  own  FAIR. 
For: — 

You  gave  us  the  best  thought  of  our  own  sages ; 
You  gleaned  the  best  from  our  new  writers'  pages ; 
You  gave  us  new  ears  for  Wisdom  and  Truth, 
And  receipts  for  renewing  our  Youth. 
What  if  you  used  words — not  always  polite ! 
You  were  never  sneering,  stupid  or  trite. 
At  times  some  fault  with  our  ways  you  would  find, 
But  usually  you  were  Gracious  and  Kind! 
If  a  quick,  harsh  word  were  needed  to  spur, 
You  gave  it — without  taunt  or  slur. 
You  gave  freely  of  Time,  Knowledge  and  Pence ; 
You  gave  Lovingly,  without  Recompense. 

By  G.  W.  Osborn 

Responsive  to  the  whispered  note 

That  in  the  dewdrop  dwells; 
Attuned  to  catch  the  crashing  chord 

That  in  the  ocean  swells. 


GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES  DAY         199 

What  magic  waked  thy  soul  to  grasp 
Such  things  where  we  hear  nought  ? 

What  far-reached  finger  touched  thine  eye 
And  showed  the  visions  sought  ? 

Or  dost  thou  give  the  greater  hope 

Can  souls  from  sordid  stupor  waked 

Find  worlds  on  worlds  within  ? 

By  Adaline  Bailhache 

O  teacher,  unafraid  to  speak, 

Thy  inmost  thought  in  words  of  flame, 
Impervious  to  either  praise  or  blame, 

From  great  or  small,  from  strong  or  weak, 

Teach  us  high  ideals  to  seek. 

Arouse  our  souls  from  thoughts  mundane 
That  we  may  seek  the  higher  plane 

Above  the  mist-enveloped  peak. 

Like  Serra,  Browning,  and  Tagore, 

Thou  hast  to  us  a  message  brought 

Of  joyous  radiance  and  light. 
O  may  this  light  forevermore 
Illumine  lessons  thou  hast  taught 

To  make  life's  highway  sweet  and  bright. 

By  Katherine  Howard 

Patriarch ;  Comrade ;  Friend :     At  your  best 

The  wild,  sweet  spirit  of  the  gold  Southern  West. 

You  will  jump  the  traces,  you  will  preach  to  ladies  in  your 

braces, 

And  you  will  say  words  that  make  them  shiver  and  cry  "Oh !" 
But  the  same  ladies  come  each  day  to  shiver  because  they 

like  it  so. 

Ah !  there's  a  sportive  soul  that  peeps  from  your  deep  wisdom 
That  binds  us  with  a  swift  chain  to  a  laughing  star, 
Link  after  link — a  chain  that  reaches  far. 


200  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

One  golden  link  I'll  leave  in  little  old  New  York, 

And  one  I'll  take  with  me  to  well-loved  France, 

And  with  a  slender  cord  of  memory  I'll  enlace 

Them  with  the  links  of  love  in  San  Diego,  so  nothing  can 

efface 

The  memory  of  these  cordial  days,  or  of  the  ways 
So  utterly  your  own ! 

Just  a  swift,  passing  hand-clasp  has  been  mine ; 

Just  a  few  words  of  understanding,  when  somewhere,  any- 
where, 

We've  met  ...  It  is  enough — there  has  been  sympathy: 

And  maybe  on  another  star — perchance  while  walking 

On  a  sapphire  wall — we'll  stop  in  passing  for  just  another 
word 

Of  how  we  met  in  San  Diego  at  the  Expo.,  and  we'll  say: 

"Do  you  remember  how  beautiful  it  was  ?" 

We  will  establish  wireless  from  Heaven's  sapphire  wall  to 
San  Diego. 

By  Jessie  F.  Dean 

O  thou  great  teacher,  brave  and  kind  and  strong, 
How  thou  hast  stored  thy  mind  with  treasures  rich, 
Gleaned  from  the  world  of  books,  the  world  of  men, 
And  from  the  great  out-doors  that  God  hath  made ! 
Daily  we  crowd  around  to  fill  our  cups 
With  wisdom  poured  so  freely  forth  for  us, 
And  go  away  with  mind  and  soul  refreshed. 

Roar  on,  O  mighty  lion!     Shake  thy  long  mane,  and  even 

growl ; 

We  know  thy  heart  is  good  and  ruled  by  justice. 
So  thunder  forth  thy  messages  of  truth, 
Till  their  vibrations  reach  earth's  farthest  shore. 
Hurl  thy  defiance  in  the  teeth  of  wealth, 
Of  false  ambition,  tyranny,  and  greed, 
And  fight  for  the  down  trodden. 
Send  forth  thy  writings  fraught  with  light  and  life 
To  all  who  hunger  for  the  better  way: 
Thou'rt  helping  bring  the  golden  age  of  love. 


GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES  DAY         201 

JUST  LIKE  DR.  WHARTON  JAMES 

By  Louise  Remondino  Stahel 

Just  a  ray  of  sunshine, 

Just  a  little  thought, 
Just  a  bit  of  happiness, 

Many  a  heart  has  sought. 

Just  a  word  of  kindness, 

Just  a  little  smile, 
Just  a  sound  of  laughter, 

Makes  the  world  worth  while. 

By  Frederick  D.  Webley 

Friend,  I  bring  you  a  tribute  now; 

Why  should  I  wait  until  you  are  dead, 
To  wreathe  a  chaplet  upon  your  brow, 

And  say  the  words  that  wait  to  be  said? 

O  there  would  many  a  prayer  be  said, 
And  there  would  many  a  song  be  sung, 

By  those  you  have  helped,  could  thoughts  be  wed, 
To  speech  or  music  upon  the  tongue. 

And  this  is  the  simple  prayer  we  pray — 
"May  his  life  be  lengthened  many  a  year!" 

For  those  who  falter  beside  the  way 
Will  take  fresh  courage  if  you  are  near. 

'Tis  yours  to  interpret  Nature's  things, 

And  read  from  the  rocks  her  histories, 
Still,  Godward  lead  to  the  Living  Springs, 

And  teach  us  of  Life's  deep  mysteries. 

As  you  turn  the  pages  of  Nature's  books 

We  scent  the  violets,  blue  and  white, 
And  lilies,  hidden  in  sheltered  nooks, 

We  found  together  up  Shasta's  height. 


202  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

We  hear  the  song  of  the  mocking  bird ; 

O!     Is  it  Pan's,  or  the  thrush's  pipe? 
No  sweeter  music  is  ever  heard 

Than  the  song  of  the  Radiant  Life. 

We  pass  with  you  to  the  Indian  land 

Of  the  brother  braves  who  hold  you  Chief ; 

You  speak  of  the  great  All-Father's  hand, 
And  lead  them  higher  through  your  belief. 

We  follow  with  you  the  mountain  trail 

Of  the  high  Sierras  to  the  clouds, 
And  watch  the  sunrise  over  the  vale 

And  the  splendors  pierce  where  the  mist  enshrouds. 

Through  Yosemite  follow  the  call, 

And  worship  there  in  the  Big  Tree  Grove, 

Where  the  Dryad's  call  from  the  waterfall 
Blend  with  the  notes  of  the  sylvan  dove. 

Not  Thoreau's  love  for  the  wilderness, 
Or,  Muir's  for  the  peaks  the  skies  enfold, 

Surpass  the  ardor  that  you  possess 
For  California's  skies  of  gold. 

O,  if  we  only  could  live  once  more 

That  marvellous  day,  that  perfect  night, 

When  we  left  the  blue  Pacific's  shore 
And  lost  ourselves  in  the  desert's  might. 

Stretching  before  lay  the  desert  floor, 

Luminous,  palpitant,  dreamy,  vast; 
A  hundred  leagues  seemed  only  a  score 

To  where  Gorgonio's  shade  was  cast. 

The  sunrise  burst  like  an  opal  flame, 

Bathing  with  splendor  the  earth  and  skies ; 

And  the  desert  trail  to  the  hills  became 
Like  a  pathway  open  to  Paradise. 


GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES  DAY         203 

And  now  I  know  of  life's  desert  road ! 

'Tis  the  Comrade  love  with  its  magic  leaven, 
That  brightens  the  road,  and  lightens  the  load, 

And  makes  the  pathway  into  heaven. 

By  Bertha  Lowry  Gwynne 

I  wish  I  knew  as  much  as  you  do,  Doctor  James; 

The  future  holds  for  me  few  higher  aims 

Than  just  to  know  as  much  as  you  do,  Doctor  James! 

To  know  about  the  ways  of  birds  and  bees ; 

All  California  authors ;  the  big  trees  ; 

The  Injuns,  How  to  Live  the  Radiant  Life, 

How  best  reclaim  the  desert,  train  a  wife ; 

To  find  the  sermons  in  the  stones,  the  tales  in  running  brooks ; 

Possess  the  technique  that  makes  you  the  ultimate  of  cooks ; 

Just  how  to  make  that  famous  soup  of  fruits, 

And,  on  the  other  hand,  live  frabjously 

By  merely  chewing  roots  ; 

And  how  to  set  a  broken  leg  and  patch  up  leaky  lungs, 

And  how  to  speak  decorously  in  fifty-seven  tongues ; 

To  swim,  to  sing,  to  spiel,  to  give ; 

To  keep  the  hearts  of  hosts  of  friends ! 

In  short — to  live ! 

O,  I  should  love  to  know  as  much  as  you  do,  Doctor  James ; 

I'd  surely  be  the  happiest  of  dames 

If  I  knew  half  as  much  as  you  do,  Doctor  James! 

By  Helen  Richardson  Brown 

Some  eyes  there  be  that  only  see  the  great, 

The  brilliant,  shining,  mighty  things  of  earth ; 

Some  only  hear  the  strongest,  loudest  voice, 
And  deem  the  others  of  but  little  worth. 

But  one  there  is  of  more  discerning  eye : 

He  would  not  spare  a  flower  from  the  field ; 

He  would  not  drop  a  star  from  heaven's  host, 
Nor  lose  the  smallest  song-bird  Spring  can  yield. 


204  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

And  so  he  sets  us  up  where  all  may  see, 

And  echoes  loud  our  song  that  all  may  hear ; 

God  bless  his  kindly  understanding  soul, 

And  give  him  peace  throughout  the  coming  year ! 

By  Rose  Hartwick  Thorpe 

We  have  followed  you  through  the  Authors'  Days 

In  this  nineteen-sixteen  year  ; 
You  have  crowned  each  one  with  a  wreath  of  praise ; 

You  have  spoken  words  of  cheer ; 
You  have  found  the  best  in  the  written  thought, 

And  presented  it  to  view. 

Now  we  California  authors  come 

With  our  tribute  of  praise  for  you : 
We  bring  you  our  hearts'  desire  of  good ; 

Our  loyal  friendship  and  gratitude. 

By  Edwin  Markham 

Comrade,  glowing  with  the  West, 
Full  of  ardor,  full  of  rest, 
Here's  my  lifted  hand  to  you 
In  the  land  my  boyhood  knew. 

Comrade,  where  the  happy  hours 
Touch  with  flying  feet  the  flowers, 
What  your  kindly  hand  has  sown 
Waits  till  Judgment  to  be  known. 

Comrade,  brave  with  brother  love — 
Heart  of  lion,  heart  of  dove — 
Heaven  will  give  you  a  golden  pack 
If  she  gives  your  own  deeds  back. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  reading  of  the  Messages  President 
G.  A.  Davidson,  of  the  Exposition,  gave  an  address  of  appre- 
ciation of  Dr.  James'  work  at  the  Exposition,  and  spoke  of 
having  known  him  for  twenty-five  years,  as  one  of  the  great 
lecturers  of  the  United  States,  from  whose  lectures  he  had 
always  received  joy,  instruction  and  pleasure.  He  then 


CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD 


GATE  OF  SAN  DIEGO,  CALIFORNIA  QUADRANGLE 


GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES  DAY         205 

presented  Dr.  James  with  a  certificate  of  a  gold  medal  award, 
the  medal  itself  not  yet  having  arrived,  to  be  given  later,  for 
Dr.  James'  distinguished  services  at  the  Exposition. 

Then  followed  a  vocal  solo,  entitled  "George  Wharton 
James,"  words  by  Fred  Emerson  Brooks,  music  by  Dr.  H.  J. 
Stewart,  and  sung  by  Mrs.  Ella  L.  Palmer,  soprano,  recently 
of  New  York  City,  formerly  soloist  of  First  Church  of 
Christ,  Scientist,  of  Kansas  City,  Mo.  Mrs.  Palmer,  in  a 
clear,  rich,  powerful  voice,  gave  a  most  expressive  and  sym- 
pathetically appreciative  rendering  of  Mr.  Brooks'  unique 
words,  and  Dr.  Stewart's  distinctive  melody.  Dr.  Stewart 
accompanied  on  the  piano. 

The  following  is  Mr.  Brooks'  song: 

i 

A  voice  of  silver  with  a  heart  of  gold : 
A  heart  as  big  as  mortal  frame  can  hold, 
A  brain  wherein  the  seed  of  wisdom  lies 
A  soul  that  lights  the  portals  of  the  eyes. 
He  never  stops  to  think,  so  much  he  knows, 
But  keeps  right  on  a-thinking  while  he  goes : 
A  tireless  man  who  searches  out  the  best ; — 
The  purest  gold  within  the  Golden  West. 

God  made  the  State  to  thrill  the  poet's  heart ; 
To  lure  the  painter's  skill,  the  writer's  art, 
But  here  is  one  to  whom  all  painters  yield, 
Who  paints  in  speech  the  wealth  of  fruited  field, 
And  writes  the  glories  of  the  land  he  knows 
Whose  breath  is  perfume  and  whose  blush  a  rose : 
No  other  man  has  made  it  quite  so  clear 
That  Eden  lost,  is  found  again  out  here. 

He  thinks  a  thought  that  no  one  thought  before 
He  plants  a  rose  beside  some  cheerless  door ; 
Creates  a  joy  in  some  poor  ragged  breast 
Where  simple  joy  is  such  a  seldom  guest. 
In  his  big  heart  so  many  virtues  blend 
His  arms  are  ever  out  to  help  a  friend. 
God  made  a  man — so  much  his  worth  proclaims — 
When  He  had  finished  up  George  Wharton  James. 


206  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

After  the  song  Dr.  James  gave  a  characteristic  address 
expressive  of  his  joy  at  the  appreciation  shown  him  and  his 
work.  He  strongly  emphasized  the  thought  that  it  had  all 
been  a  work  of  love,  hence  had  brought  as  much  or  more  to 
himself  than  had  been  given  to  others.  In  choice  words  he 
glorified  the  Expositions  of  San  Francisco  and  San  Diego  and 
thanked  "Whatever  Gods  there  are"  for  giving  him  the  privi- 
lege of  two  years  of  such  joyous  work  in  connection  with 
them.  His  address  was  full  of  pathos  and  tenderness  at 
times,  and  again  flashed  out  in  his  vivid  and  eloquent  manner 
as  some  especial  memory  possessed  him.  His  audience  was  in 
perfect  sympathy  with  him  and  responded  with  breathless 
attention  and  hearty  applause. 

It  should  be  noted  that  Dr.  James  was  scheduled  to  give 
some  personal  reminiscences  of  noted  English  Authors,  but  as 
it  was  growing  late  and  chilly  he  begged  to  be  excused.  The 
Chairman,  Dr.  Spalding,  however,  called  for  an  expression 
from  the  audience,  and  as  the  response  was  unanimous  that 
the  address  be  given,  the  speaker  resumed  the  platform  and 
gave  a  most  interesting  and  fascinating  address  upon  his 
remembrances  of  George  Eliot,  Huxley,  Tyndall,  Darwin, 
Ruskin,  Carlyle,  Beatrice  Harraden  and  others. 

In  concluding  his  address  Dr.  James  jokingly  referred  to 
the  perfect  attention  that  had  been  accorded  him  that  after- 
noon. He  had  not  had  to  rebuke  anyone  for  whispering,  or 
for  thoughtless  disturbance  of  others.  He  expressed  gratitude 
that  so  many  people  had  responded  to  his  endeavors  to  procure 
a  more  careful  hearing  of  concert,  opera,  sermon,  or  lecture, 
and  urged  upon  his  hearers  a  perpetual  application  cf  the 
principles  he  had  sought  to  inculcate.  If  he  had  made  enemies 
by  his  endeavors,  they  were  made  in  a  good  cause,  and  he 
asked  his  friends  "to  love  him  the  more  for  the  enemies  he 
had  made." 

A  most  delightful  afternoon  was  brought  to  a  close  by  Dr. 
H.  J.  Stewart's  improvisation  upon  the  massive  open-air 
Spreckles  organ,  of  a  melody  composed  by  Dr.  James  some 
years  ago,  which  had  become  quite  popular  among  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Literature  Class.  Words  had  been  composed  for 
it  by  Alice  Ward  Bailey,  in  her  novel,  "The  Sage  Brush 


GEORGE  WHARTON  JAMES  DAY        207 

Parson,"  in  which  many  incidents  in  the  life  of  Dr.  James, 
while  a  Methodist  minister  in  Nevada,  were  recorded.  Mrs. 
Bailey's  song  is  as  follows : 

THE  TROUBADOUR 

Along  the  shining  way  there  came, 
A  Troubadour !  A  Troubadour ! 
As  out  of  darkness  shines  a  flame, 
And  in  his  hand  no  harp  he  bore, 
He  sang  of  joy  in  overflow, 
He  sang  the  pain  mankind  must  know ; 
And  they  who  listened  to  that  voice, 
With  it  did  mourn,  with  it  rejoice. 

But  more  than  this  thou  broughtest  me, 

0  Troubadour !  O  Troubadour ! 
All  that  I  thought  and  meant  to  be, 
Like  flooding  wave  returns  once  more. 

1  take  the  joy,  I  dare  the  pain, 
Content  to  be  myself  again. 

Sing  on,  Sing  on,  as  God  hath  meant, 
My  Heart  shall  be  thy  instrument. 

As  many  who  had  heard  Dr.  James  during  the  year  of  his 
lectures  had  felt  the  power  of  his  spoken  words  to  move  them 
to  live  "all  that  they  thought  and  meant  to  be,"  it  seemed  to 
be  singularly  appropriate  that  this  thought  should  be  the  one 
with  which  his  distinguished  and  felicitious  work  at  the 
Exposition  should  close. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MR.  WINSLOW'S  BOOK  ON  THE 
EXPOSITION 

S  I  have  clearly  expressed  in  former  chap- 
ters San  Diego  had  much  to  be  proud  of 
in  her  dainty,  beautiful,  and  attractive  Ex- 
position. To  produce  this  ensemble  of 

delight,   wonder   and  glory   required  many 

minds.  The  genius  and  work  of  a  score  or  more 
were  centered,  for  long  months,  upon  its  conception 
and  realization.  In  order  to  understand  aright  and 
appreciate,  even  approximately,  the  full  significance 
of  the  Exposition  one  must  know  something  of  the 
mind  of  its  creators.  In  its  architecture  this  has 
been  made  possible  by  the  publication  of  a  book,  its 
appearance  commensurate  with  the  dignity  of  the 
subject,  both  in  typography  and  illustration,  entitled 
"The  Architecture  and  the  Gardens  of  the  San 
Diego  Exposition" ;  a  pictorial  survey  of  the  Aes- 
thetic features  of  the  Panama-California  Interna- 
tional Exposition. 

This  book  was  written  by  Carleton  Monroe 
Winslow,  who  did  much  of  the  architectural  work 
of  the  Exposition,  and  the  illustrations  are  from 
photographs  made  by  the  well-known  artist  of  San 
Diego  and  Coronado,  Harold  A.  Taylor.  The 
introduction  was  written  by  Bertram  Grosvenor 
Goodhue,  of  New  York,  the  advisory  and  consulting 
architect  of  the  Exposition,  hence  the  work  through- 
out bears  the  stamp  of  authority. 


WINSLOW'S  EXPOSITION  BOOK         209 

That  the  San  Diego  Exposition  was  entirely  dif- 
ferent from  any  other  Exposition  ever  held,  all  that 
know  are  aware,  but  it  remained  for  Mr.  Goodhue 
to  point  out  the  reason  for  the  difference.  The  vast- 
ness,  enormousness  of  other  Expositions  grew  out 
of  their  desire  to  gather  together  as  many  of  the 
varied  products  of  man's  genius  and  skill  as  all  the 
nations  of  the  earth  could  supply.  Hence,  while 
the  San  Francisco  Exposition  was  noble,  large,  beau- 
tiful and  successful,  it  was,  after  all,  uno  more  than 
the  most  recent  of  a  great  series  of  not  very  dis- 
similar things."  Then  Mr.  Goodhue  continues: 

At  San  Diego  the  case  was  different.  Though  rapidly  increas- 
ing in  population,  San  Diego  cannot  yet  be  considered  a  great  city. 
.  .  .  Yet  it  did  project  and  did  carry  out  a  smaller  exhibition, 
not  a  World's  Fair  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  term,  but  rather  one 
that  was  cultural  and  regional.  It  endeavored  to  reflect  the  past 
of  that  great  section  of  the  country  of  which  it  forms  the  natural 
seaport,  and  to  obtain  insofar  as  this  was  possible,  something  of 
the  effect  of  the  old  Spanish  and  Mission  days  and  thus  to  link  the 
spirit  of  the  old  seekers  of  the  fabled  Eldorado  with  that  of  the 
twentieth  century. 

In  speaking  of  the  charm  and  glamour  of  the 
country  Mr.  Goodhue  thus  eloquently  expresses 
himself  about  San  Diego : 

Judged  by  all  ordinary  and  extraordinary  canons  of  beauty, 
the  regions  that  may,  because  of  their  climate,  foliage,  color  and 
form,  be  held  to  be  the  loveliest  are  but  few  in  number — the 
Riviera,  the  Bays  of  Naples  and  Salerno,  some  of  the  Greek 
Islands,  certain  mountain  valleys  in  India,  the  Vega  of  Granada, 
the  parallel  one  of  Shiraz — the  list  is  almost  exhausted  now  and 
the  New  World  is  not  yet  reached.  Yet — except  for  the  charm 
that  comes  from  works  of  man  softened  by  centuries  of  use,  the 
glamour  given  by  ages  of  history,  the  tender  respect  always  com- 
manded by  things  that  are  venerable — in  Southern  California  may 
be  found  every  attraction  possessed  by  those  cited — the  tenderest 
of  skies,  the  bluest  of  seas,  mountains  of  perfect  outline,  the  richest 
of  sub-tropical  foliage,  the  soft  speech  and  unfailing  courtesy  of 
the  half-Spanish,  half-Indian  peasantry — even  much  in  the  way 
of  legendry  that  has  wandered  slowly  northward  in  the  wake  of  the 
padres. 


210  EXPOSITION  MEMORIES 

Mr.  Goodhue  then  clearly  differentiates  between 
what  is  permanent  in  the  buildings  and  gardens  of 
the  Exposition  and  what  is  temporary — constructed 
with  the  definite  idea  of  its  removal  as  soon  as  it 
had  served  its  purpose. 

His  Introduction  is  followed  by  a  most  able  and 
comprehensive,  though  brief,  essay  on  the  Spanish 
Colonial  style  of  architecture  by  Clarence  S.  Stein, 
after  which  Mr.  Winslow  takes  up  in  detail  the 
descriptions  of  both  architecture  and  gardens. 
Aided  by  the  fine  photographs — some  of  which  are 
reproduced  in  these  pages  by  the  courtesy  of  the 
artist  and  the  publisher — one  can  gain  a  full  idea 
of  the  beautiful  thoughts  called  forth  by  the  charm 
and  history  of  the  country  and  which  eventuated  in 
the  dreams  of  beauty  which  entranced  all  who  came 
to  see  them.  Not  a  detail  is  missed,  and  those  who 
sought  in  vain  during  the  early  days  of  the  Exposi- 
tion for  an  explanation  of  the  figures,  designs,  and 
symbols  used  on  the  buildings,  can  here  gain  the 
full  answer  to  all  their  questionings. 

Indeed  to  those  who  find  joy  in  the  renewal  of 
their  sweet  and  perfect  memories  of  a  sweet  and 
perfect  Exposition,  I  regard  this  book  as  invaluable, 
hence  this  added  chapter  to  call  attention  to  it.  It 
may  be  had  from  every  bookseller  in  California,  or 
direct  from  the  publishers,  Paul  Elder  &  Co.,  of 
San  Francisco,  to  whose  genius  in  fine  book  mak- 
ing the  volume  owes  its  exquisite  and  artistic 
appearance. 


INDEX 


Titles  to  chapters  are  in  SMALL  CAPITALS. 
Titles  of  writings  or  poems  are  in  italics. 


Aber,  Mrs.  Marguerite  C,  42 
Aborigines,  Literature  of  Cali- 
fornia, 47 

Adams,  H.  Austin,  82 
Allen,  Mrs.  A.  B.,  63 
A  Night  Wi'  Burns,  129 
Anti-Whispering  Society,  29 
Architecture  of  Exposition,  15 
Army  Flier,  The,  165 
Asher,  Robert  H.,  82 
At  Last  I  Know  Life,  114 
At  One  With  Thee,  86 
Audience,  Annoying  An,  27 
AUTHOR'S  DAYS,  CALIFORNIA, 
37,  41,  59-75 

Bailey,  Mrs.  A.  W.,  47 
Bailhache,  Adaline,  83,  199 
Ballad  of  the  Oregon,  152 
Banquets,  20 
Barteau,  Daisy  M.,  86 
Beach,  Mrs.  Amy  M.,  18,  63 
Beachy,  the  Aeronaut,  20 
Berryhill,  Anna  E.,  90 
Bierce,  Ambrose,  40 
Bigelow,  L.  Adda  Nichols,  92 
Bird  Box  Day,  18 
Bird  Day,  18 
Blake,  Dean,  65 
Bond,  Carrie  Jacobs,  18 
Bouquel,  the  Aviator,  Joe,  20 


Bradley,  Bessie  Lytle,  95 
Bride's  Psalm  of  Joy,  192 
Broderson,  Mrs.  Lola,  69 
Brown,  Helen  Richardson,  93, 

203 
Browning,  Robert,  Lectures  on, 

53 
Brooks,  Fred  Emerson,  Day,  37, 

40,  66,  205 
Brubaker,  Edith,  47 
Bungalo<w,  White,  40,  56 
Bunker  Hill  Day,  18 
Burns,  A  Night  Wi\  129 
Butterfly,  The,  162 

Cabrillo  Bridge,  11,  14,  23 
CALIFORNIA  AUTHOR'S  DAYS,  37, 

41,  59-75 

California  Birthday  Book,  43 
California  Building,  11,  13 
California  Lectures,  27,  36 
CALIFORNIA  LITERATURE  CLASS, 

25,  39,  25-58 

California  Literature  Room,  42 
Call  to  Arms,  The,  87 
Call  of  the  Open  Air,  The,  187 
Campbell,  Ellen  Hosmer,  97 
Captain,  Educated  Horse,  16 
Cheer  Up,  106 
Cheney,  John  Vance,  Day,  37, 

38,  40,  68 


212 


INDEX 


Childs,  Miss,  73 
Choruses,  18 
Church,  Virginia,  100 
City  Librarian,  41 
Clark,  Nettie  Finley,  100 
Clough,  E.  H.  (Yorick),  101, 

124,  145 

College  Women's  Club,  38,  39 
Columbus,  65 
Connolly,  James,  105 
Conroe,  Grace  Sherburne,  58 
Coolbrith,  Ina,  Day,  37,  38,40,  63 
Coronado,  Hotel  del,  49,  129 
Coronado  Sketches,  191 
Corral,  The,  123 
Cox,  Miss,  68 
Creed,  My,  106 
Cristobal  Cafe,  20 
Currier,  Miss  Julia,  68 

Dana,  40 

Dan,  My  Operator,  17 

Darling,  Ernest,  16 

Day  is  a  Loom,  O,  The,  157 

Day  is  Coming,  The,  157 

Davidson,  President  G.  A.,  204 

Dean,  Jessie  F.,  200 

Eastern  Entrance,  12 
Edwards,  George,  61 
Elegy  of  Old  Town,  An,  179 
Eldridge,  Edward  F.,  106 
Ellis,  Madame,  16 
Ely,  Samuel  London,  112 
Escondido  Grapes,  45 
Evening  in  California,  174 
Evening,  Panama-California 

Exposition,  182 
Exposition,  Beautiful,  173 


Fagin,  Mrs.  Maude  Ervay,  39, 

114 

Fancy's  Garden,  169 
Farnham,  Mrs.  Alice,  61 
Fine  Arts  Building,  11,  13 
Flowers,  12 

Flume  Walker,  The,  121 
Fog  Horn,  The,  95 
Fog  That  Comes  In  at  Night, 

The,  191 

Ford,  Alexander  Hume,  16 
Foreign  Industries  Bujlding,  11, 

13 
Franklin,  Caroline  Remondino 

IX.,  116 

Fraser,  Mrs.  Grace  H.,  38 
French,  Frank  Arthur,  121 
Fromm,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  17 
Fruit  Soup,  46 
Fullfilment,  A  Bride's  Psalm  of 

Joy,  192 

Fullam,  Admiral,  49 
Fuller,  George,  Judge,  123 


Gage,  Lyman  J.,  50,  51 

Gage,  James  R.,  129 

Gardens,  Exposition,  13 

Girls  of  San  Diego,  The,  91 

Gee,  Miss,  16 

Getz,  Tom,  16 

Gilbert,  Miss,  7 

Globe  Mills,  44 

Goodhue,  Bertram  Grosvenor, 

15,  208 

Grant's  Crackers,  46 
Green  Fairy,  The,  163 
Guignon,  Henri,  13,  17 
Gwynne,  Bertha  Lowry,  134,  203 
Gypsy  Heart,  The,  156 


INDEX 


213 


Hardy,  Minnie  Johnson,  135,  197 
Hardy's,  44 
Hart,  Mr.,  61 

Harte,  Bret,  Day,  37,  38,  40,  60 
Hawaiian  Day,  18 
Heliotrope  Hedge,  13 
Heller's,  44 
Helping  Hand,  49 
Heracles,  The  Vision  of,  158 
Hernan,  John  J.,  49,  68 
Herrman,  Miss  Jennie,  70 
Hollingsworth,  Frederick,  137 
Homeless  Jimmie,  142 
Homesteader,  The,  160 
Hotel  del  Coronado,  129 
House  Blessing  Ceremony,  56 
House  Delightful,  The,  56 
Horton,  Mrs.  A.  E.,  38 
Howard,  Mrs.  Katherine,  38,  49, 

199 

Huggins,  Eli  Lundy,  139 
Hume,  Leigh  A.,  42,  44 
Humming  Bird,  To  the,  105 
Huntington,  Collis  P.,  41 
Hyde,  Elizabeth  Howard,  141, 

197 

In  After  Years,  194 
Indian  Villages,  11 
Introductory,  VII 
Isthmus,  11,  16 

/  Would  That  Men  Were  Free, 
189 

James,  George  Wharton,  Birth- 
day of,  43 

Day,  37,  39,  75,  195-207 
Dinner,  43 

Lectures  on  Browning,  53 
Lectures  on  Tagore,  51 


Letter  to,  55 
Song,  205 

Jennings,  Miss  Marion,  64 
Johnson,  Stiles,  144 
Just  You,  117 

Kaufmann,  Adelheide,  Miss,  196 
Kaufmann,  Mrs.  J.,  42,  68 
Kendall,  Mrs.  Edgar  J.,  38 
Kinne,  Orlando  W.,  145 
Knapp,  W.  Buell,  149 

Lament,  A,  144 
Lark  Ellen's  Voice,  141 
Laurel  Leaf,  A,  145 
Lectures    on    California    Litera- 
ture, 25,  36 
Leopold,  Madge,  150 
Library,  San  Diego  Public,  38,  39 
Lily  Pond  at  Exposition,  12 
Line  Upon  Line,  171 
Literature,  California,  36 
LITERATURE  OF  SAN  DIEGO,  76-79 
Little  White  Bungalow,  58 
London,  Jack,  Day,  37,  39,  40,  69 
Lonely  Wolf,  The,  139 
Loose  Him  and  Let  Him  Go,  188 
Los  Angeles,  129 
Love's  Bouquet,  196 
Love's  Questioning,  186 
Lowenstein,  Miss  E.,  61 

MacDermid,  Mrs.  S.,  73 
MacDonald,  Miss  Celia,  196 
Maloy,  Walter,  26,  46 
Markham,  Edwin,  Day,   37,  38, 

40,  61,  204 

Man  and  the  Desert,  A,1S1 
Man  With  the  Hoe,  40 


214 


INDEX 


Materialist,  The,  93 

Mayer,  Pearl  La  Force,  151 

McCrackin,  Josephine  C.,  Day, 
37,  40,  70 

Meadow  Lark,  Meadow  Lark, 
164 

Memory  of  Myron  Reed,  In,  147 

MEMORIES  OF  SAN  DIEGO  EXPOSI- 
TION, 11-24 

Mikel,  Rossiter,  17 

Miller,  Joaquin,  150 

Miller,  Joaquin,  Day,  18,  37,  38, 
40,  64 

Miller,  Mrs.  E.  D.,  38,  39 

Miller,  Juanita,  40,  65,  196 

Mills,  Ellen  Morrill,  152 

Minty,  Mrs.,  64 

Missions,  Panorama  of,  16 

Mocking-bird,  The  Anxious,  176 

Moonlight  on  the  Pacific,  175 

Mt.  Shasta,  92 

My  Creed,  106 

My  Faither's  Hame,  101 

My  Ideal,  149 

My  Loves,  84 

My  Mother,  138 

Native  Bird  Towhee,  170 
New  Mexico  Building,  11,  14 
Night  on  the  Beach,  A,  192 

Olive  Day,  18 

Only  Pebble  on  the  Beach,  The, 

97 
On  the  Highway  to  the  City  of 

Silence,  101 
Opportunity,  146 
Oregon,  The  Ballad  of  the,  152 
Organ  Pavilion,  11,  18 
Osborn,  G.  W.,  198 


O,  the  Day  is  a  Loom,  157 
Our  Orchards  Laugh,  176 
Outcalt,  Mrs.  Adele  M.,  39 
Outcalt,  Irving  E.,  156 
Overland  Pony  Express,  The,  107 

Painted  Desert,  11,  16 
Palmer,  Mrs.  Ella  L.,  205 
Panama-California  Exposition, 

Evening,  182 
Panama  Canal,  16 
Panorama  of  Missions,  16 
Passport,  The,  155 
Payson,  Mahdah,  159 
Peace  Day,  18 
Penfold,  H.  J.,  17 
Penman,  Satella  Jaques,  160 
Pigeons,  21 

Plaint  of  the  Ships,  The,  154 
Plaza  de  Panama,  18 
Pledge,  Anti-Whispering  Society, 

34 

Poetry  Society,  38 
Pony  Express,  The  Overland,  107 
Post,  Denver,  34 
Press  Club,  San  Diego  Women's, 

39 
Price,  Mrs.  Alice  Barnett,  61 

Reed,  Loren,  65 
Richards,  Miss  Helene,  61 
Ridgeway  Tea  Company,  39,  44 
Rose  Garden,  13,  17 

San  Diego,  128,  137 

San  Diego  and  the  Exposition, 
135 

San  Diego  Authors'  Day,  37,  74 

San  Diego  Club,  38,  39 

SAN  DIEGO  EXPOSITION  LITERA- 
TURE CLASS,  25-58 


INDEX 


215 


SAN  DIEGO,  LITERATURE  OF,  76-79 

San  Diego  Mystery,  82 

San  Diego  Wednesday  Club,  38, 

39 
San  Diego  Women's  Press  Club, 

39 

San  Diego  Writers'  Club,  39 
SAN  DIEGO  WRITERS  AND  THEIR 

WORK,  80-194 
San  Joaquin  Valley  Building,  11, 

13,  26,  46 

Schumann-Heink,  18 
Scott,  Carroll  de  Wilton,  162 
Serra,  Junipero,  Day,  18 
Shasta,  ML,  92 
Showley  Bros.,  44 
Shrubbery  at  Exposition,  12 
Siegenfelder,  Miss,  63 
Singing  Garden,  My,  160 
Sisters,  178 

Skinner  to  His  Mules,  The,  159 
Smith,  Amy  Sebree,  164 
Smith,  Art,  20 

Sokul,  Deva  Ram,  16,  39,  49 
Some  Merry  Little  Men,  184 
Song  of  the  Desert,  151 
Sonnet,  Legend  of  a,  124 
Spalding,  Rev.  Charles  E.,  39 
Spanish  Singers,  19 
Spreckles'  Organ,  17 
Springtime  on  the  Somme,  122 
Spirit  of  the  Desert,  112 
Stadium,  12 
Stahel,   Louisa  Remondino,   168, 

201 

Stanford,  Ida  Ghent,  56,  171, 197 
Stanford,  Leland  Ghent,  172 
Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence,  40 
Sterling,  George,  Day,  37,38,40, 

64 


Stewart,  Dr.   H.  J.,   17,   63,   65, 

205,  206 

Storm  King,  The,  161 
Sunset  on  the  Sea,  96 
Swede,  The  Big,  21 

Tagore,  Sir  Rabindranath,  49 
Tagore,  Lectures  by,  52 
Tagore,  Lectures  on,  50 
Tail  of  Trusty  Jake,  134 
Tainter,  Lila  Munroe,  38,  178 
Take  the  Bitter  With  the  Sweet, 

149 

Taylor,  George  Whiteley,  179 
Taylor,  Harold  A.,  208 
Thomson,  Estelle,  176 
Thorpe,  Rose  Hartwick,  Day,  37, 

39,  41,  72,  203 
Thy  Love,  182 
Tie,  The,  94 

Tingley,  Madame  Katherine,  51 
To  a  Fair  San  Die g an,  140 
Tommasino's  Band,  17,  21 
Towhee,  Native  Bird,  170 
Trailed,  166 
Transformation,  96 
Trees,  14 

Troubadour,  The,  47 
Troyer,  Carlos,  65 
Twain,  Mark,  Day,  37,  59 
Tyler,  Bertha  Bliss,  42,  45,   55, 

75,  181,  195 
Tyler,  John  G.,  17,  46 

Unwelcome  Dove  of  Peace,  141 

Vincent,  Mrs.  Amy,  64 
Vision  of  Heracles,  The,  158 

Walks  About  Exposition,  14 


216 


INDEX 


Way,  Miss  Emma  F.,  39 
Webley,  Dr.  Frederick  D.,  201 
Webster,  Elsie  Jewett,   185,  196 
Wednesday  Club,  38,  39 
Wee  Bit  Lassie,  100 
What   Constitutes    Ginger    Cor- 
dial, 182 

When  Mary  Looks  at  Me,  181 
Where  God  Walks,  115 
Whispering,  Anti-Society,  29 
White  Bungalow,  42,  56 
White  Bungalow,  Little,  58 
White  Covered  Wagon,  The,  92 
White  Magic,  168 
White,  Mrs.  Charles  P.,  61 
Who  Shall  Separate  Us?  84 
Widener,  Miss  Ethel,  69 
Wilkinson,  Marguerite,  191 


Wilson,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  C.  L.,  16, 

37 
Winslow,  Carleton  Monroe,  15 

WlNSLOW'S  BOOK  ON  THE  EXPOSI- 
TION, 208-210 

Wireless  Builder,  The,  121 

Wolfs  Appeal  to  Z>.  Campbell, 
The,  131 

Wolf,  The  Lonely,  139 

Would  That  Men  Were  Free,  I, 
189 

Would  We  Were  Birds,  169 

Wright,  Harold  Bell,  Day,  37, 
40,  64,  71 

Yates,  Mrs.  Maribel,  39,  194 
Yaw,  Ellen  Beach,  18,  141 
Yorick,  101,  124,  145 


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